


a fleeting moment

by thchateaus



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Cunnilingus, Enemies to Lovers, Enthusiastic Consent, F/F, Falling In Love, First Kiss, Fluff, Jon Snow is Not a Targaryen, POV Sansa Stark, Political Alliances, Slow Burn, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, i will not elaborate
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-24
Updated: 2020-12-24
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:07:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 42,839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28278117
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thchateaus/pseuds/thchateaus
Summary: Sansa is used to liars. She knows how to read them.She has to.Grew used to them somewhere between her father’s head on a pike and the battle of Blackwater. She had perfected reading and playing them by the time she’d been wed to Tyrion. And by Ramsay? Well.Point being, she is used to them.And so, when Jon receives word that Daenerys Targaryen wishes to meet with him to discuss uniting under her name, she can’t help but scoff.(Or: A complete rework of the war between Cersei and Daenerys - that which Daenerys and Sansa fall in love in the midst of.)
Relationships: Minor or Background Relationship(s), Sansa Stark/Daenerys Targaryen
Comments: 24
Kudos: 203





	a fleeting moment

**Author's Note:**

  * For [RedSovereign](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RedSovereign/gifts).



> Firstly, Merry Christmas eve to all who celebrate!
> 
> Second, this is a complete rework/AU of season 7 and 8. The most prominent change is that Jon is not a Targaryen and Jon/Dany never happens. There are many other differences: Sansa is a character and not a Girl Boss plot device, every character has a purpose and nobody is killed to justify turning Dany mad. Miss me with that misogynistic mess.
> 
> Lastly, I obviously do not own these characters. If I did, they would've been treated better.
> 
> TW for mentions of rape and abuse that Sansa endured throughout the fic and an execution at the end of it. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy the fic!
> 
> (Sorry about any typos, I’ve scoured the whole thing but some may have slipped by)

Sansa is used to liars. She knows how to read them.

She has to.

Grew used to them somewhere between her father’s head on a pike and the battle of Blackwater. She had perfected reading and playing them by the time she’d been wed to Tyrion. And by Ramsay? Well.

Point being, she is used to them.

And so, when Jon receives word that Daenerys Targaryen wishes to meet with him to discuss ending Cersei’s tyranny and uniting under her name, she can’t help but scoff.

The first time Sansa had heard of the Targaryen was days after her marriage to Tyrion. She remembered it well. 

Inebriated, he claimed she had claimed an army across the sea. Turned slavers to dust using the dragons she’d brought to life herself. Tyrion joked that perhaps the red comet months before had been a prophecy. Of a girl not much older than her sculpting her own destiny.

Perhaps, Sansa had naively thought, she could do the same. She’d grown tired even then of praying to Gods that had taken her family from her. She was tired of the Gods and their justice.

Looking back now is an odd thing. What good had it done her? What had it granted but false hope?

For Daenerys Targaryen, it had gotten her an army and thousands kneeling at her feet. A Targaryen coming to conquer the country like her ancestors, perhaps the gods had their own sick sense of justice themselves.

Jon’s meeting with her had gone well, of course. He sent frequent letters home during the time he spent there. He spoke of Daenerys’ stubbornness, the bite of her words, of her unwillingness to back down from her cause. That cause being the ruin of Cersei. Sansa could at least admire that. Some part of her even revelled in it.

Brienne gently nudges her from behind, drawing her back into the present as soldiers approach from the Kingsroad. 

The lords around her collectively face the gates as Daenerys’ men begin to march through, and thus, a roar breaks through the clouds and shakes her.

She watches as the dragon lands and Daenerys steps down from the saddle upon her dragon’s back. She walks forth into the courtyard as it flies away to join the other, greener one in the sky. The weak, winter sun catches on its wingspan and she’s surprised to see they’re in fact red. 

She feels a pang in her stomach. Thinks of Lady’s grave that resides in the Godswood, carved in greys.

Jon rides in alongside the exiled Mormont and her army commander soon after that. He’s tense, that she can tell, though not as worried as the soldiers who march beside him. Jon looks back to Mormont who says something, something that must be funny because he gives a curt laugh that even Sansa can hear.

She can’t remember the last time Jon laughed like that.

Grief has chipped away at each of them, they were defined by it. For years to come, they would be. At least that was all the Boltons would be remembered for. Contributing to that grief. Almost decimating the Stark house and destroying their own. 

The Lannisters were long overdue the same fate.

It's odd seeing Jon together with her people like this. She wasn’t sure what she was expecting. She knew exactly who would be accompanying Daenerys here. The size of her army, her fleet, who her allies were too. She’d made sure of it the moment Jon had left for Dragonstone. 

She just wasn’t expecting to see him so comfortable among them.

Jon hops off of his steed at the end of the yard and rushes to embrace Bran the second that he spots him. Vacant eyes stare up at Jon when they break apart. Unseeing. Her little brother trapped in some other place or time entirely.

It hurts, even months after his revelation. Her siblings are all home, at last, something that she dreamt about for years. The only thing that had kept her alive through each tear of her. And yet each felt like strangers. Bran, most of all. 

She supposes time can do that to a person. She’s long since rid of the young girl who dreamt of chivalry and princes she used to be. 

Bran still hugs Jon back, gingerly so, and thus she can pretend all is well now that her family are together. In their home. Just for a second.

“Where’s Arya?” Jon’s looking through the crowd, confusion bleeding into his features.

“Admiring the dragons,” Bran announces, voice distant as he smiles vaguely up at Sansa.

She looks away and meets foreign, violet eyes that squint across at her. Her stomach muscles clench, and she steels herself with a sneer. 

Jon may well have bent the knee and the North may well belong to her now, but it doesn’t mean she has to be happy about it.

Thankfully, it seems she’s not the only apprehensive one. She notes several lords glaring Daenerys’ way too as they bow to her.

Daenerys’ composure falters for a second before she straightens her spine and strides toward her with a smile. She’s good, Sansa thinks, noticing not another soul was aware of her blip.

“You didn’t ride with your men? Or Jon?” Sansa asks as she stands, perfectly neutral, and a thrill climbs her spine as Daenerys’ nostrils flare.

“I prefer flight,” She smiles, her eyes hard as they set on Sansa. She holds out a gloved hand, ruby red and dainty. “Lady Stark, I wish to reassure you that I’m not here to sweep you underfoot and take your home. Fighting this war with you is my priority.”

Sansa nods, curt, take the hand offered. It's small in hers, perhaps even dainty, but firm. Her warmth seeps through the leather as does her strength in which she grips Sansa’s hand.

She had heard stories of entire cities and armies succumbing to her power. It is strange to link those tales to the small, fair woman in front of her. Yet, a single march their way has all of these resolute men at her feet.

Perhaps it's the literal legion of men behind her. The tents beyond the gates to hold them. Or the dragon she’d landed in the yard on, the first north in hundreds of years. Or perhaps, she thought, they were fools.

Daenerys drops her hand back to her side, sending a warm smile toward Tyrion as he unmounts. Sansa finds herself drawn to the creased eyes, the crescent dips in her cheeks. There’s nothing fake about that look, not at all. It was nothing like the way she’d looked at Sansa.

“Lady Sansa,” Tyrion clasps his hand atop hers and Sansa smiles, can’t help herself at the sight of an old friend. Perhaps her only true friend in the South. No matter her thoughts on Daenerys Targaryen, she was glad to see him again. “It is good to see you once again. Though I do wish it were under alternate circumstances.”

“I don’t,” Sansa tilts her c.hin up, feels violet eyes on her again, “I’ve been dreaming of your sister’s execution for years.”

For a second, Tyrion visibly fidgets. “Yes, well. Something that you share with our Queen, at least.”

Daenerys nods, one perfect curl falling from her braid. “I wish to thank you for allowing me and my people into your home. I know that our houses have a tenuous history but I’m hoping that we may amend that.”

“I didn’t have a choice given that my brother bent the knee to you, Your Grace.”

Daenerys’ smile tightens, “I’m grateful that you recognise the importance of this war over your pride, then.”

“I’m sure you are,” Sansa says, eyes flitting from Daenerys to her brother. He settles her with a withering look and she knows a hint when she sees one. She straightens. “We’ve prepared a feast for your arrival.”

“My men will be glad for it after such a long journey,” Daenerys says, smiles earnestly back at her commander, and Sansa hates her.

Bran looks to Sansa when Daenerys steps away and smiles.

* * *

She’s too perfect, is the thing.

It's too nice, too polished. It's a falsity.

It makes sense. With powerful Westerosi advisors, of course, she’s been prepped for Westeros. Certainly aware of just how to manipulate fools amongst both the lords and the common people.

Daenerys forgoes her food at the head of the table to speak with Jorah Mormont. About what, she didn’t know, but she need only to hear her bright laughter to witness the lords lapping it up. They fell over themselves, these rigorous men, so willing to ask of her battles and the beasts outside the gates.

She knew what they whispered of else wise. That Daenerys’ beauty was otherworldly. That her strength rivalled Jon’s. That she would deal with Cersei with such ferocity that he never could alone. She could see it in each of their weathered faces that followed her with wonder.

It made her seethe, watching her intermingle among them. She took little Lord Umber’s hands in hers and smiled, was _always_ smiling, and he grinned right back as she spoke.

Sansa wondered how long she could keep up the facade. Nobody was truly that happy to engage with others, especially not someone born of such descent as hers.

The light caught on her silver braids, diluting violet eyes to something lighter, and Sansa steels her gaze. Lifts her chin. She seems so out of place here, with her creatures that were bound to her and her beauty.

“You don’t wish to eat the food our cooks took days to prepare for you?”

Daenerys’ lashes flutter as she jolts to look back at her, all cheer vanquishing. She watches as it slips from her face and leaves it vacant, like that of sculpted marble.

Sansa resists a smile.

“I’m afraid I can’t eat much more, Lady Stark.”

“Forgive me, Your Grace, but we’re in for a long war and a longer winter. Perhaps it would be wise not to waste what has so generously been given.”

Daenerys’ jaw locks, though she speaks only to Sansa with an odd calm. “You are free to give the leftovers to those who wait outside if you wish. We shouldn’t let such labour go to waste.”

“They will be provided where possible,” Sansa’s teeth grind together.

Daenerys’ lips twitch, rear back just a little, teeth bared. She wears her name, no doubt.

She shouldn’t say more. Jon is eyeing her from the end of the table, his eyes narrowed. A warning. 

Daenerys is their guest, she knows. Whether she likes it or not, they need her to win this war. Whatever happens to her, whether she gets the throne she craves or not, Sansa knows that she‘ll be the reason that Cersei falls. She must be civil, at least, but she can’t resist but to pull what’s there.

It excites her, to see that pretty face twist because of her.

“I don’t suppose you know how we are meant to house the largest army Westeros has ever seen and three dragons in Winter?”

Daenerys’ nostrils flare and Sansa’s insides churn, heavy with something. “You’ve known of my arrival for months and of winter for much longer, I would have thought you would be more prepared.”

She looks to Jon beside Sansa, slips back into her placid mask. “I’ve had a long day, and I thank you for this feast. See that the cooks are thanked and given all leftovers they may like but I’m afraid I must retire."

With that, Daenerys takes her leave, her translator and her knight in tow.

* * *

Sansa rereads the raven aloud once again, quiet in her fury in her corner of the study. 

_House Glover wishes House Stark good fortune in the wars to come but my men and I cannot support the Targaryen Usurper in good faith. The North Remembers._

Jon throws his glove onto the table with a sigh.

“What am I to do?”

“If you’d asked me a month ago, I would’ve told you not to bend the knee to the daughter of the Mad King. Yet, here we are.”

Jon looks at her with a straight face, “She wants our help, and she wants to support the North. She sought me out as an ally. Can you think of another ruler of our lifetime that has done the same?”

She frowns. “The North doesn’t want a queen. They want independence.”

“They wanted independence when Robb was fighting for our freedom from the Lannisters. Daenerys wants to work _with_ the North and the rest of the kingdoms.”

Sansa directs her glare to the candle behind her brother. “Maybe she’ll let you and your men ride south to win her war for her and burn you alive just as her father did.”

Jon shakes his head, “I already rode south to meet with her. Do I look like ashes to you?”

No, she thinks, but a man who has sold his crown and his kingdom to a Targaryen. 

“No. I just don’t trust her to be any different than her father.”

“Neither did I,” He admits, removing his other glove. “But I do now, and you will too. You’ll come to see her for what she is.”

Sansa doesn’t respond to that, and Jon dismisses the conversation with an excuse about a meeting with the high lords.

* * *

Sansa had taken her childhood room once they had retaken Winterfell.

Ramsay had had her stuck away in one of the wetnurses’ old quarters, nothing but four cobbled walls and a sole window. A cell, at best.

The first thing Jon had done after Ramsay was disposed of was offer her their parents’ room, perhaps even Robb’s had she requested it, but she couldn’t stomach either. She couldn’t handle their lack of presence, the barren vastness of dust and unkempt furs atop beds that had kept traitors warm. That had kept _him_ warm. 

She’d restored her room as best as she could remember. The chest in the corner for materials to make her own dresses. The doll her father had gifted her sat atop it. A row of candles that she couldn’t stoke out. The dark of the night let her mind run rampant, and she couldn’t quell her thoughts no matter how she tried.

She couldn’t replicate the memory of her childhood better. Yet it didn’t feel welcoming at all.

It didn’t stop the dreams. Of Ramsay, of her mother’s corpse forgotten in a riverbed and the crows that cried as her father lost his head. She dreamt of other terrors, worse ones, of each and every monster she had faced. No matter how many candles she lit or furs she wrapped herself in, they would not leave since she’d returned to Winterfell.

For years, she had dreamt of reclaiming the castle. It's all she’d wanted, wanted so desperately she had sought out Petyr and almost destroyed her family once again. She was good at that.

But the halls and the rooms are made up of ghosts. Of beasts, human or of her own creation. She could never tame them.

She wondered if Jon or Arya felt the same.

If only they would speak with her for more than a moment.

She sat back against the head of her bed, furs up to her chin and knees to her chest as she undid the plaits in her hair. They were twisted in such a way that her mother had first taught her to do. 

She felt ridiculous, sulking alone in her room. Much like that young girl who hung onto songs and fairytales. She’d long since outgrown the desire for princes and didn’t care much at all for being some damsel. 

But she wanted _something_.

Jon had a purpose, Arya had a purpose, Bran… was Bran. But he was useful. All Sansa had thought about since the glamour of King’s Landing had lifted, was avenging her family. She had done that.

What now?

A knock at the door interrupts her train of thought.

“My Lady,” Brienne steps in, still in her armour and sword at her hip, always on guard. “My apologies for disrupting you.”

“Apology accepted,” Sansa smiles up at her, “Is everything alright?”

Brienne looks to the side, just for a second, to the open chest at the end of her bed. 

“Daenerys Targaryen requests your presence in her chambers, my Lady.”

Something in Sansa twists. Anger, perhaps. “Did she give a reason?”

“I’m not entirely sure. She did mention the feast from yesterday.”

Sansa nods, a swift thing, and clenches her jaw. If it wasn’t Daenerys, she was sure Jon would have requested her presence. She knew her stint earlier had upset many. It didn’t mean she regretted it.

She stands and pushes her braid over one shoulder. It wasn’t like she could refuse, was it? There would be plenty more duties in her future, she reminds herself, ones much more unpleasant than this.

“Very well. You’ll accompany me?”

Brienne nods, “Of course.”

She waits while Sansa dresses, abiding her time with talks of the Dothraki frontmen she’d seen about the castle.

“They’re unnerving, are they not?” Sansa asks as she pulls on her furs.

“They are intimidating, as all armies are. With good reason, I suppose. They don’t much trust us, do they?”

“Well, I don’t tend to trust those famous for pillaging and murdering for sport either.” 

“A couple were outside her quarters when she called for me. They wouldn’t keep their hands from their blades even as she invited me in. Having such a fearless cavalry so loyal to you is a feat and a half, I suppose. They follow strength, I hear, and I’ve never known a woman as ferocious as you or her.”

“I suppose,” Sansa parrots back, suddenly tiring of the conversation, and steps out of her room past Brienne. “Do you believe that her army is so vast?”

“Podrick talked my ear off about the miles of tents outside the gates. About how beautiful she is, too. He’s not the only one that has said such things, I’m sure. Though, I noticed you haven’t warmed to her.”

“Can you blame me?” Sansa huffs an empty laugh, the quiet of the hallways filling her with unease, “Plenty of people hide behind a pretty smile and empty promises for power.”

Brienne’s gaze cuts slowly to her rather than ahead, “So you believe her to be untrustworthy then?”

She eyes the tents as they pass a window, “I don’t think it matters much at all what I think of her, I’m not the king.”

Brienne’s lips quirk, “That’s not an answer, My Lady.”

“Did you notice her and her commander handing out grains to children outside the gates earlier?”

“I did. With respect, this bothers you? Why?”

“Surely she knows she’s being watched,” Sansa exhales through her nose, “I believe it all to be a farce. And I regret that I’ll be proven right, no matter how much I know we need her.”

Brienne makes a noise, her mouth quirked upward when Sansa glances to her again.

“And you truly believe that?”

“Unless she somehow proves otherwise, which I doubt, then yes. Don’t tell me you’re falling for it too.”

Brienne doesn’t respond, and her silence is as much an answer as any speech.

Two soldiers meet them outside her chambers with their blades unsheathed. They don’t acknowledge Brienne, she notices, only Sansa. Their loyalty seems to ring true. Though, it's laughable that they believe her to be a threat at all.

One of them opens the door for her, and Missandei is there with her hand up as if to open it.

“Oh,” Missandei gasps, a slight laugh escaping before she collects herself, “Welcome, Lady Stark. I thought I heard something outside.”

“My apologies.”

Sansa stands in the room, uncomfortable as Missandei hovers about the candles before stepping further inside.

Daenerys’ chambers are roughly the size of Sansa’s own and laid out the same way. There are clear differences despite her only being at Winterfell a day, the influx of candles and the Targaryen ensign threw over a partition toward the end are the most obvious to her. A further, quick scan helps her spot glasses that are clearly not from Westeros.

She looks away, resisting an eye roll in their company. Steam ripples between the intricately carved spiral patterns of the partition that aren’t covered by the banner with sweet salts lingering in the air.

“Thank you for coming,” comes a voice behind it, a calmness to it, and Sansa waits with bated breath as she hears the unmistakable sound of water sloshing.

“I don’t believe I had much of a choice.”

She hears a song of laughter then a whisper between a queen and her advisor. 

When Missandei promptly walks past her and out of the room, she scarcely hides her surprise.

“Tell me, Lady Stark, what do you think I’d have done had you not come to my chambers?” Daenerys’ voice carries. She watches her silhouette step out of the tub and swallows on nothing. “That I would have you kneel? Turn you to ash if you refuse?”

Sansa clutched her hands in front of her, pressed until her knuckles were white. “I don’t doubt that you’re capable of worse.”

Daenerys steps out past the partition and across the room to her closet. She turns to face Sansa as she pulls out smallclothes, features lifted in light amusement. “Well, I don’t suppose that’s a compliment.”

Sansa feels flush. Perhaps it is the candles, she isn’t used to such heat. Or perhaps it is being so close to the dragon. One with flames and sorcery. She swallows, her eyes casting over Daenerys’ body before she rips her gaze away.

Daenerys walks forward, slow, like time itself bows to her also. Her smallclothes leave little to the imagination, the cloth nothing but a thin veil over her golden body.

Sansa’s jaw clenches.

“Is it?” She queries, standing so close that Sansa can feel the warmth that emanates from her like it's her own.

Daenerys looks to her lips, for a second.

“I could have forced your brother to my cause. I could have burnt him alive if he refused. Then I could’ve taken your barren mess of a kingdom easily. But I didn’t. And I won’t.”

“Why didn’t you?” Sansa can’t look away, transfixed as Valyrian beauty strikes her with awe.

Daenerys smiles, a sad thing, “I want all my people to be free from war and injustice. Something your brother and I share. He bent the knee willingly. And, I wonder, why you still don’t trust me.”

Sansa falters, her hands clasped tight like a vice in front of her.

“Many have said the same for power. Many more have done unimaginable things for less. I don’t believe your cause is anything but a lie.”

“That’s unfortunate,” Daenerys’ voice drops to a whisper. Her gaze falls to Sansa’s mouth and, eventually, down her body. “It saddens me that you feel this way.”

Sansa dips her head to hide her shiver, lips pressed together.

“None of that,” Daenerys tuts softly, thumbs Sansa’s chin. “Tell me, was your stunt yesterday truly because you distrust me?”

Sansa doesn’t answer, keeps her gaze locked on the candles behind Daenerys’ head. She _can’t._ Daenerys’ lips curve as Sansa’s remain open. Like she knows. She’s so close, her breath heavy on Sansa’s jaw.

She thought about lying her way out of this. It would be so easy, too easy. Except, oddly, she found she _wanted_ to be here. Though, she would deny it the moment she left this room.

It would be so simple. To give in to what is so obviously being offered. She swallows again, her lips parting with it.

“I want to help you and your people,” Daenerys’ thumb lifts to her lip and pushes down on the flesh. Sansa’s jaw goes slack. “Work with me.”

And what a funny predicament she’d found herself in. A Targaryen, the Mad King’s daughter, doing this to her. 

She doesn’t push her away. 

Daenerys watches her as she removes her thumb, her hand skirting her neck instead. It sits there as she pulls Sansa down, mouth skirting Sansa’s. She trembles with it as their lips meet, close-mouthed, a chaste thing if anything. She’s offering Sansa an out. Another chance.

Sansa kisses her.

Daenerys keens into it as her hands move to Sansa’s arms to lean up and kiss her back. The gentle touch is foreign, and she can no longer fight the impulse to open her mouth to her.

She inhales, nasally and high when Daenerys properly captures her mouth. Kisses her with a fever that burns as bright as the candles, nips at her lip and scrapes her teeth along it enough before replacing them with her tongue.

The hand on her neck burns as Daenerys tugs her further to kiss her better, harder. An easy route to have Sansa panting into her mouth, lost entirely to her every principle. She cannot think, not with such liquid pleasure filling her.

The hand finds its way to her hair and her braid. She frees it as Sansa preoccupies herself with sucking at her tongue.

Once her hair is free, Daenerys’ hand slips to the back of Sansa’s coat. She tugs at it, to rip apart the seams, and Sansa goes still. It's enough to pull her out of it altogether, to place her back in that empty room with its cobbled walls and Theon stood in the corner.

“Please stop. _Stop._ ” Sansa takes a step back from her, her head murky with something. Unclear. She heaves as she moves away even as Daenerys follows after her.

“What did I do?” Daenerys asks, her chest heaving as her face twists with confusion.

Trembling, she moves further away and toward the door. “Seducing men into your bed to get what you want may well work. But it won’t on me.”

Daenerys’ face falls and Sansa hates herself for thinking it so beautiful.

Sansa steps backwards until her back hits the door and she raps at it. She calls for Brienne - to back into sanity.

“I know you felt something too,” Daenerys bares her teeth in a snarl as the door is unlocked, crosses her arms across her chest. She looks incredibly small. Alone, surrounded by her flames.

Sansa doesn’t answer.

She doesn’t say a word to Brienne outside either when she asks. She ignores the way that she won’t stop staring at Sansa like she knows something, and can barely utter a goodnight as she forces her chamber doors shut.

* * *

Naturally, it is impossible to avoid Daenerys and her people for long in Winterfell after that.

Although she tries.

If it's not Dothraki warlords sparring in the courtyard at dawn, it’s Tyrion praying in the sept. It’s Varys lurking about the halls between war meetings she’s dubious to attend and Jorah Mormont smiling at her at the entrance to the Godswood.

She feels like a child. Hiding away like this, away from any semblance of humanity that wasn’t northern officers or her siblings. Daenerys would be gone soon, she knew. She would soon grow tired of strategizing and march for the South and stay on that throne all her life. And she wouldn’t have to see her again.

Giving in like that had been a mistake. A scorching one. One she should’ve been much too smart to fall into. Yet she had.

It's Jon who is the one to practically drag her into the hall.

“Sansa,” He says as a greeting at her door, that seemingly permanent frown on his face, “What are you doing in here still? It's the middle of the day.”

“Is it?” She purses her lips. References the stack of scrolls she’s already read through twice. “I got sidetracked.”

“People are starting to notice you’re gone. You know we have to put up a united front if we want to remain allies with Daenerys. We need her.”

“Why do we? The Starks have rebelled against the crown before. We can do it again.”

He lets out an exasperated laugh. “Would you listen to yourself? She’s here to help us keep our home. We’re going to help her get rid of the monster who kept you from it. I don’t understand.”

“She’s a Targaryen. You’re an idiot to trust her.”

“She says she wants to make this country into something better and I believe her. That’s why I bent the knee. I need you and Arya and Bran to be with me on this. Do you have any faith in me at all?”

“You know I do,” She sighs, fixating once again on the scroll from Howland Reed that professes his support for Daenerys’ claim. “They’re almost all surrendering to her.”

“Because I bent the knee. They know just as well as me that she’s our only chance. They’d be stupid not to.” He squints at the map, “Plus she’s not her father.”

“No,” Sansa huffs, “She’s much prettier.”

Jon barks a laugh at that, a hesitant smile lighting up his face. It makes him appear much like the young man he is as opposed to the one worn down by war.

“She’ll make a good queen.” She scoffs at that and he continues, “She’s been asking why you haven’t been around the past couple days.”

“Undermining me under our very roof in front of our allies, then?”

“No,” He takes hold of her hand, uncurls it gently from the harsh grip of the table. “She came to me herself. Just me. You know, she doesn’t have many friends up here. I think maybe she thought you’d be ideal. I reckon you’d be good together if you weren’t so bloody stubborn.”

Her stomach tightens as her eyes burn. She looks away to the cobbles behind Jon’s head, blinking harshly.

“The last time I trusted someone, he sold me and left me to die. He knew what a monster Ramsay was and he still gave me to him.”

“Sansa,” His face falls and he wraps an arm around her frame. Speaks muffled against her hair. “I understand why you don’t trust her, I do, but I wouldn’t vouch for her unless I believed in her. I said I’d keep you safe and I meant it.”

She exhales shakily, steels herself with her arms tight around her brother. “What do you want me to do?”

He squeezes harder. “Make an effort with her. Even your sister has been trying.”

Sansa scoffs at the idea of Arya doing anything remotely courtly, and it quickly grows into a full-fledged laugh. Jon laughs along, shaking his head.

“I suppose I could come to the hall today. Even if it's just to watch her pretend to be nice.”

Jon snorts. “If she can do it, you can, alright? Even if it's just for the hour.”

* * *

It's when she’s on her way to the Great Hall later that day per Jon’s request that she sees Daenerys for the first time in days.

It's the hushed, low voices she hears from the end of the hallway that first entices her, childishly so, and she can’t help but step closer. She feels bad for it, of course, but her curiosity gets the better of her.

The door to Daenerys’ chambers is open a crack, suspiciously free of guards. When she hears Jorah Mormont speak inside, that soon makes sense. The sword is an extension of him if Tyrion’s drunken stories were true, and the knight had made it very clear to all in Westeros that he would die protecting her.

So, she gets it.

What she doesn’t, is why they’re arguing. In a barely concealed room at that.

There’s a scroll on the table between them. Hands, what she thinks are Daenerys’, grip it in a harsh hold. It looks like she’s shaking. 

“How many Unsullied are dead?” She asks, voice quiet and yet something about it unsettling. Devoid of anything but muted anger. She can hear it threaten to implode.

“Half,” That must be Mormont. A weathered hand reaches for hers, and she watches her push it away before hers curls into a fist.

“And Yara?”

Mormont sighs, “Believed to be captured with her fleet destroyed. Euron wants us to believe her as good as dead, but I know the Ironborn. He will keep her to taunt you and your allies.”

Sansa thinks of nothing but Theon then. She had parted ways with him so long ago. He’d never written back. Had he been captured with his sister? Had he even made it? Gods, she hoped he was safe. Alive, at least.

“And the Dornish army who sailed with Yara?”

Jorah’s silence says enough.

“We should let Tyrion and Varys know,” Daenerys’ voice is wetter, more hoarse. She must be crying, Sansa realises, and feels something churn in her own throat. “They’ll know how to handle this.”

“Of course.” 

She hears the smack of boots on stone flooring, and when she chances another peek inside, Jorah is at her side. He pulls her into his arms and she allows it this time, face falling into his shoulder.

“I’ll deal with Grey Worm. I’m sure this news will be difficult for him.”

“Thank you,” Daenerys is definitely crying at this point, Sansa can hear her sniffling between speech, “This man almost took my child from me. His men have destroyed much of the Unsullied for land I no longer own. And now he has Yara. What if this is the first of my losses?”

“It will not be,” He speaks with such conviction that Sansa herself is inclined to believe it, “I’ve seen what you’re capable of. It won’t be easy but you will win. Many believe in you, Khaleesi, and more will join them before the thing is done.”

“I want him dead,” Daenerys says, her voice harsh despite her tears and the quietness of it, and Sansa likens her words to flames in her mind. “There will be no bargaining with him, I refuse it. He will suffer as much as Cersei when I get to them.”

“Justice will come for him.”

Daenerys rasps something incomprehensible as Sansa hears a noise behind her. A clack of boots, she thinks, and bids it her time to leave.

She pretends not to have heard a thing.

Missandei and Jorah Mormont watch her from the end of the table in the great hall the following morning.

It's incredibly quiet, half-full at best, with only a handful of the usual lords spotted throughout and her siblings at the front tables. There are a handful of Unsullied and Northmen dining together at the end of the room, their laughter quiet from so far away. 

She forks at what appears to be venison with a grimace she’s too tired to hide.

Jon coughs beside her, goblet in hand. “Are you not hungry?”

“I have little appetite at dawn.”

“Me too,” Missandei smiles across at her, “You’re not the only one here out of obligation as opposed to actual hunger, I assure you.”

She supposes that is the gentlest olive branch she could receive. She grasps it.

“I’m glad I’m not alone,” She takes another sip of mead.

Missandei’s smile widens, “Forgive me, My Lady, but I have wondered how you have such fruits. I thought it was impossible to grow anything in winter here?”

“It is, but we have glass gardens. We grow them all year round, whether it’s winter or summer. It was the first thing I asked to be rebuilt once we took the castle.”

Jorah’s attention flicks to her, then, and he tilts his head. “My apologies for imposing but the castle indeed runs on hot springs then? I had assumed it to be a lie all my life.”

“It does sound improbable, doesn’t it?” She clears her throat, honeyed meat clogging it. “But, yes. The whole castle relies on them to keep it warm. There are caves beneath the castle that you may visit if you like. Some are safe enough that you may bathe in them.”

“Oh, I like the sound of that,” Daenerys walks through the great doors, somehow looking perfectly regal despite the loose hair and dishevelled furs. She greets all who look with a smile, her gaze catching on Sansa. “My apologies for being so late.”

“You were with Drogon again?” Missandei asks, her eyes bright, and Jorah smiles. Sansa doesn’t miss the concerning gaze he sweeps over her with, and Daenerys doesn’t either. She wrinkles her nose at Missandei’s antics, nods back at him as she sits beside Jon.

“The skies were clear and he needed the exercise. I needed the air. The North is so beautiful from so high, I almost forget what we’re facing from up there.”

“It's barely dawn. You didn’t think to join us to eat beforehand?”

“No,” Daenerys’ lips twitch, “How was your walk of the grounds with Grey Worm today?”

Missandei grows flustered and dips her head with quiet, concealed laughter and Sansa catches Daenerys’ eyes as she smiles. Something sweet and private. Something not meant for Sansa’s attention.

Still, she can’t help but smile back at the sight of them, though she would deny it if she were asked. They are a family just as much as Sansa’s siblings are hers, blood or not. 

She knows that Daenerys does not have any living relatives or betrothed, either. Surely, she must be lonely. She does not seem so with them and her dragons at her side, at least. 

Daenerys continues to watch Sansa even after their laughter subsidies, and the attention makes her squirm. Brings her back to candles and whines against her mouth.

She shudders and looks away to Tyrion. “How long are your people planning to stay before they march south, My Lord?”

Jon glares as he hides his frown behind a hand and a mouthful of food. Between that look and Daenerys’ eyes following her, she relents. Straightens and tries a small smile, a casual thing.

“It is just that I know your men have travelled a long way and already fought in one battle. A chance to rest is wise.”

“We agreed on several weeks,” Daenerys cuts in on his behalf, her gaze heavy. It makes Sansa’s chest feel tight. “Enough time for my men to recover and for your own to join me by the time plans are fortified.”

“That’s wise,” Sansa says, unable to look up and her way. Her heart pulsates at a rate that it feels sickly, words thick on her tongue like treacle. “Do you plan to march or to sail? What have scouts reported back?”

Tyrion speaks for her. “We have men tracking the seas between the capital and Dragonstone, My Lady. The lands are a different complication.”

“Not that complicated,” Sansa huffs under her breath, and watches Daenerys’ face away with an inclination of a smile.

“With respect, Lady Sansa, you do not have nearly as much experience as many of us in this room at forging alliances or the inner politics of each kingdom. It is going to be difficult.”

Sansa can’t help but scoff at that, and even finds her brother pulling a face at the answer.

“Aye, she may be younger than the rest but in the last year, she’s won Winterfell back by forging alliances herself and led the North while I was away meeting with you. I mean no offence but my sister is not the girl you once knew.”

Daenerys straightens at that, the amusement was gone from her face as she regards Sansa.

“Lady Stark. Will you be attending tonight’s war council?”

She colours at the attention, “I’m not much of a battle strategist. I know little about war. I’m not sure I’d be much help.”

“I would be glad if you were there,” Daenerys clasps her hands together on the table. “Besides, a new voice can’t possibly hurt, can it?” 

That vulnerability of Daenerys’ she’d let slip more than once, the actual show of true humanity she’d witnessed and the way that she watches Sansa as she ponders, meant she couldn’t compel herself to say no.

Daenerys must win this war. She knows that. And she needs people in her ear that aren’t best known for their deceit to other rulers.

Perhaps, one could be her.

* * *

A scout disrupts the meeting.

They’re barely begun, seated around a map of the country, when horns blare from outside. 

Jon heads out with Davos in tow, reassuring everyone to remain seated. She notes Daenerys fidgeting where she stands at the open windows of the library. It's a uniquely warm day, not a single cloud in sight, and so they are safe to be left open. Sansa finds the chilling breeze a comfort.

“My Queen,” Varys comes forward toward her and effectively blocks Sansa’s view of the courtyard entirely. “I believe it possible that the scout brings news of Lannister troops performing a siege on the Eyrie.”

“How is that possible?”

“I hear whispers all across the country, Your Grace. People love to talk, and they love even more to be heard by my birds. I heard only yesterday that the Lannisters were marching for the Vale.” 

Arya frowns, “Why didn’t you tell anyone? Our cousin resides there.”

“I wanted another source of confirmation before giving word to our Queen or our Lord. It appears this scout may well be it.”

“It's no use giving life to rumours,” Sansa acknowledges with a nod. “That was wise of you, Lord Varys.”

Daenerys observes silently as she speaks before looking back to Varys, lips pursed. “I thought the mountains were impenetrable? Ser Brienne mentioned it was difficult enough for her to traverse with just her squire.”

Sansa tries not to show surprise at that statement. When had Brienne spoken with Daenerys?

Tyrion speaks from across the table, “Well, yes, but it's not impossible. Cersei’s men are well trained and they outnumber the Vale’s forces two-to-one. Of course, they may wait it out inside. They’re said to have enough grain for years.”

Daenerys nods, solemn, and wrings her hands together. “What do you suppose I do?”

He takes a drink of ale, pulls a sour face before continuing, “I believe it merely in our best interest to wait. Cersei is trying to intimidate you with an army she cannot afford. It’s not worth losing men for a siege that may last years.”

Sansa breathes out a laugh, and their gazes snap toward her.

“With respect, your sister is not smart enough to pull that off,” Sansa stands, “And you aren’t as smart as you think you are if you don’t see the opportunity this presents.”

She taps the lion perched on the mountains on the map, trails a finger over the falcon. 

“The Vale supports the North but Lord Royce doesn’t hide his distaste of you. Their men are safe inside those walls for years you said, My Lord. Why should they engage in a war between two queens they don’t care for?”

Daenerys’ gaze shifts from Tyrion to Sansa, her brows furrowed. When she speaks, it is softly, “Then what would you have me do, Lady Stark? I can’t just leave potential allies at risk."

“I would never presume, I was just making an observation.”

“Flatter me, then,” Daenerys steps closer, her cheeks pink, “I’m asking for your advice. I asked you to this meeting myself for a reason. I want your help. What do you think I should do?”

Sansa draws a deep breath. “You already have allies in nearly every kingdom. The only advantage she has is Euron’s fleet and fear. She lost you two allies… but one true show of power against her and support for her will easily topple.”

“What are you suggesting?”

“I think you should leave for the Vale and strike her men. Her sellswords will abandon her. The Vale will take your side. My uncle, the Blackfish, will pledge support when word of our alliance meets him. She will have no allies but Euron Greyjoy, the Golden Company and traitor bannermen.”

Daenerys’ shoulders slack. She regards Tyrion, “What do you think?”

He flanders. “It's a risk. How can we be sure the Vale will not bargain a deal with the crown? Robin is not exactly a fit leader. He doesn’t know how to lead a siege. He may panic and support my sister.”

“No,” Sansa rounds the table, passing by Daenerys to take the falcon and place it beside the dragon and the wolf. “Robin is loyal to me. He will allow us his men and supplies if I ask of it. Besides, Cersei’s men aren’t there by choice and it’s Winter. The siege won’t last long either way.”

Tyrion’s wavering gaze doesn’t go unnoticed by her or Daenerys, the latter breathing hard through her nose before she straightens her back. Her hands shake, Sansa notes.

“Your Grace, you already took her forces on once before to protect the Reach, did you not? You’ve proven their swords are nothing to you and your people. I think it's a simple choice you’re facing.”

“I thank you all for your counsel,” Daenerys’ cheeks pink as she looks rather hastily down to the map. She watches her think through the dance of expressions that grace her face. “I shall leave for nightfall.”

“Your Grace, you cannot follow through with this,” Tyrion frowns, “You’re not here to be Queen of the Ashes, you once told me. Your people will not follow you if you resort to fear and burning my sister’s men alive.”

Daenerys shakes her head in a sigh, “We are at war. Do you think I _want_ to kill anyone? They have cost the lives of thousands of my men and lost me the Rock, the Iron Born and Dorne, too. They almost lost me the Reach and now they threaten the Vale. What kind of a Queen am I if I’m not willing to fight for my people?”

“A wise one,” Tyrion insists, and Daenerys looks back to Sansa with pleading eyes. 

“I was there when you burned thousands of men alive in Blackwater Bay, Lord Tyrion,” Sansa cuts in, almost amused, “You know it’s the way of war. Brutality against tyranny will ensure she will be lauded the rightful heir by the high lords and the people. Isn’t that what you want?”

“It can be achieved without falling back on fear. Men will not support her if she deals with her enemies by turning them to ash, My Lady. Plenty of people still fear her name. They will side with Cersei out of regularity if she attacks.”

“And if she goes through with this attack, they’ll come to see her fury is reserved for Cersei and those who choose to support her. The people know Cersei is a monster. They will flock to Daenerys the moment she wins this war, and to do so, sometimes brutality is necessary. Do you really think so low of your queen?”

Tyrion pales at that. “Of course not. I am mere-”

“So how do you propose she wins this war?” Sansa leans forward, hands on the table as she peers across at him. “Do you suppose she asks your sister kindly?”

“I believe we may be able to explore alternate methods.”

“Enough,” Daenerys spits, “I will not leave my allies to starve to preserve an image and I would be a fool not to do as Lady Sansa says. I’ll leave at dusk. Perhaps once I return, you will have this alternate method of yours and an apology waiting.”

* * *

Finding Daenerys after that meeting proves to be difficult.

She passes over a group of her Khals and Freefolk sparring in a yard as Brienne oversees it. Her commentary is loud and clear even from a level of cobbled stone above, and she finds it privately endearing to watch as she passes by.

Brienne is extending a hand toward Daenerys’ forces, just as she and her siblings are to the queen, albeit with difficulty. It's nice to witness, even in passing. 

One goes to tackle her and she hears the clang of swords before Brienne’s grunt, and laughter erupts between the group. She finds a smile makes its way to her face, standing alone as she watches from a window ledge.

She makes her way to the Godswood after and finds only Gilly and Davos there. They tell of the dragons in the Great Keep and bid her farewell.

She’s not sure why she even decided to see Daenerys off. She can’t let her leave without an apology, that’s for certain, and the guilt churns away with every step toward the yard she takes. 

Sansa had assumed the worst of her. She’d been wrong, she knew that, and what kind of a leader could she ever hope to be if she let pride rule her like it had been?

When she spots silver hair behind the largest of the two winged creatures, she knows without a doubt she would regret it if she didn’t speak to her. She must approach.

The dragon alerts Daenerys to her arrival and makes the choice for her, his warning growl sending chills through her. The green one awaits by the open gate, already saddled up and wings flapping. Like he cannot wait to leave. He pays Sansa no mind. It almost makes her laugh despite the racing of her veins.

Daenerys looks back with a smile, apologetic, and shushes him.

He settles, exposes his neck to her once again so she can fasten the bridle, and continues to stare at Sansa. 

“He’s just cranky.”

“It’s alright,” Sansa swallows, watching him with unease. Even curled up like so, he takes up most of the courtyard.

“Don’t take it personally,” Daenerys tugs on the leather, ensuring it's correctly applied, and Drogon shakes his head. She laughs, strokes over rigid scales as one would pet a cat. “He and his brothers haven’t been eating much lately. I don’t think they like the North.”

Sansa’s snort surprises herself and Daenerys both, the queen’s smile warming. 

She gestures as politely as she can to Daenerys’ chattering, the red high on her cheeks and nose. “Maybe it's the cold.”

“Your brother did warn me that winter was no laughing matter. Though, I admit I assumed he was exaggerating.”

“He wasn’t,” Sansa shakes her head in a laugh, “We were always warned about it. I’ve never actually experienced Winter before. I’m not sure how much worse it can get.”

“Things can always grow worse than you can imagine,” Daenerys speaks softly, brushes the faint layer of snow from Drogon’s saddle that had gathered. She falters as she looks back to Sansa. “I wasn’t expecting to see you before I returned but I wanted to thank you.”

“You’re the one with the numbers and the dragons. I just pointed out what was right there, what the men around you are too stubborn to see.”

“I’m sure Tyrion knows you were right. He was the reason I didn’t fly for the city when Cersei had half the forces she does now. I would like to think he regrets that, too. I’d have thought he’d learnt that playing passive gets me nowhere.”

“I used to think he was the cleverest man I’ve ever met. Now, I’m not so sure.”

Daenerys’ smile is gentle. True. “I think this is the first time we have agreed on something.”

“Yes, I suppose it is, isn’t it?”

Daenerys breathes out laughter, merely fog in the evening air. “I won’t grow used to it then.”

Sansa smiles down at her feet, feels much like the girl once in awe of princes. Knights in shining armour handing out roses. Instead, a Targaryen queen is readying for battle.

“I want to apologise for the other night, Your Grace. For what I said and rushing out like that. It was…”

“Entirely forgivable,” Daenerys frowns, “It was wrong of me to force you into that situation.”

“Oh,” Sansa isn’t sure what to say, face hot. “It's alright.”

“It wasn’t but I thank you for your forgiveness anyway, Lady Stark.”

“Just Sansa,” She corrects, looks Daenerys in the eye, “If we’re to be friends, I’d rather not with the formalities.”

“Friends? That’s what we are to become?” Daenerys’ eyes dance, her cheeks marked with pretty, crescent moons. “Sansa, then. Please forgive me.”

Sansa digests the way her name sounds on her tongue. She speaks it with care like it was a gentle thing, something of importance.

“There’s nothing to forgive.”

“Alright,” Daenerys’ cheeks redden as she looks away to the darkening sky. “Perhaps when I come back, we may continue this conversation.”

Sansa bows her head. Watches her pat Drogon’s wing and witnesses him lower it for her to climb onto the saddle. “I look forward to it.”

“As do I,” Daenerys grasps the reign, looking much like her ancestors Arya would tell her of. She saw much of Visenya and Rhaenys both in her. She didn’t see her father at all.

“I bid you farewell.”

“You too,” Sansa says, uselessly so, and Daenerys’ laughter is made of bells as the dragon takes flight.

It's when she’s watching her take flight that she catches sight of the figures upon the canopy clearly having been watching them. Davos and Varys. Something about it makes her feel small. 

She turns away and for her chambers.

Unsurprisingly, her dreams are full of her.

* * *

Viserion had been left behind at Winterfell while Daenerys flew for the Vale.

Viserion, she believes, is named after her brother. The half-mad one. He was injured from the sail for Winterfell. Euron’s fleet had ambushed him where he flew miles ahead of the ships, thus a spear had struck his shoulder.

Apparently, it had allowed them to turn tail and sail around the fleet. Something of a lucky escape, with her dragons and much of her fleet intact.

She could see, even now, the stitches at work. Dark against golden scales. Samwell’s handmanship, she thought, or maybe even Gilly’s.

She’d been watching him attempt flight from the walls at the back of Winterfell for the better part of an hour. Watched golden wings dance in the sun before he, inevitably, crashed back down into the snows. Hobbled back toward the collection of carcasses she supposed he considered a nest.

Jon had offered stable room for the beasts in the meeting yesterday even after the scout had confirmed their suspicions, and Daenerys had merely laughed.

They don’t much trust strangers, was all she had said, and Sansa thinks she gets it.

Viserion had not once ventured close to the castle grounds even when in flight, preferring the forest in the distance. 

“They’re incredible, aren’t they?”

Sansa doesn’t turn to face her sister.

“I suppose so.”

Arya chuckles beside her, reaches to drag her hand through the blanket of snow on the wall. 

“You received a raven from the Eyrie today."

“I did?” Sansa quells her surprise as soon as it rises and raises a brow. “And why did it not fall into my hands?”

“I found it at your desk.”

She doesn’t pretend to be shocked by her sister’s snooping. She was used to it as a girl, and even more so now. Such sneaking is a part of her. Besides, her sudden protection for Sansa and their home after Baelish was sweet. Although, she would never say it to her face.

“What did it say?”

“That Robin will let the Vale march with us south if needed. That they stand by House Stark and pledge loyalty to House Targaryen.”

“Lord Royce has been tutoring him well, then,” Sansa resists an urge to roll her eyes, “I’m not sure if we need his men. I should write back to express my thanks, though.”

“What’re fifteen-thousand men going to do when she already has two armies, the wildlings and the Northmen?”

“The Vale was untouched by the last war. His allegiance directly following Daenerys’ attack on the Lannisters will reach all of the realms. It’ll swing many more people to her against Cersei.”

“I guess,” Arya doesn’t seem to mind the correction all that much, bunching the snow into a scarcely crafted tower. She had never been one for politics, ever since she was a child. “I don’t know why we’re not marching for King’s Landing tomorrow. Most houses back her, she’s got two dragons fit for flight and all those men. Why not?”

“Me either,” Sansa admits, “I suppose Euron’s fleet is a problem, as are the Golden Company and her scorpions. To get to Dragonstone involves marching through or sailing past enemy territory. I understand why she’s being careful. I just know that I want Cersei dead.”

Arya snorts at that. “I wonder what Daenerys plans to do with her.”

Sansa thinks back to the time she’d happened upon Daenerys discovering the news of the ambush of her men and Yara’s capture. How she had sounded less like a queen and more like her beasts she’d brought into the world. 

“She’ll make her suffer,” Sansa says, turning back to Viserion. The tear in his wing. Something about envisioning Cersei’s death brings her relief, after all she had suffered under her thumb. 

“Good.”

Sansa merely hums. 

They stand together as the snow falls, the silence blissful somehow, and she’s reminded of that time before Petyr’s trial. How close she had come to believing his vitriol about her own sister. She burns at the thought of it. She would never let anything come between her and her loved ones again, she thinks.

“He’s missing her.”

Sansa’s brows draw together, mouth twitching. “Did you become an expert on dragons as well as a nameless assassin in Essos then?”

“Faceless,” Arya corrects with a laugh, a nasal thing, and Sansa can’t fight the grin any longer. “Well, why do you think he keeps crying out? I could hear him all the way from the Godswood.”

“Maybe it's the cold,” Sansa gestures to the attempt of a nest bordered with carcasses and charred ground. “Daenerys mentioned that they’ve not been eating much because of it.” 

“She did, did she?”

Sansa faces her with narrowed eyes. “What’s that meant to mean?”

“Nothing,” Arya’s eyes dance, “It was really nice of you to help her out yesterday.”

“I didn’t do anything but make her see sense. She can’t do anything by sitting and doing nothing up here, no matter how much Tyrion tries to persuade her not to."

“He’s an idiot. A common trait he shares with his family, after all, I guess.”

Something in Sansa sours at the realisation that strikes her at Arya’s words. “He’s not fit to advise someone like her.”

“But you are.”

“Arya…” She warns, “I don’t - I didn’t help her because of that. I did it because-”

“The North, you already mentioned why,” Arya studies her, calculating. “You know that it's okay if you feel things for her. You’re not the first or the last, I’m sure.”

“Well, I don’t,” Sansa’s throat constricts on nothing. “And my only priority is protecting the North.”

She squints across to the woods. “You were never a good liar.”

Sansa exhales, “Because I’m telling the truth.”

“I know you don’t completely trust her. I know what Jon did was stupid. But I don’t think she’s mad.”

Sansa’s brows raise of their own accord. “You don’t?”

“No. She’s pretty full of herself, but I see why. She walked into fire and came out with three dragons when she was younger than me and started a liberation. Just saying, I get it.”

“Sounds like you’re the one with a thing for her.”

“I admire her. I don’t suppose we’ll see someone like her again,” Arya says, hand returning to her blade, “She is pretty, though. I don’t blame your staring.”

“I do not stare.”

“Please, I have eyes,” Arya raises a brow, “Why exactly do you mistrust her? Don’t tell me it's because she’s a Targaryen.”

“I don’t know,” Sansa answers truthfully with only Arya and the winds to hear her. She wrings her hands together before deciding to be out with it. “She tried to kiss me the day after she arrived.”

Arya goes uncharacteristically quiet for a minute. Sansa daren’t look her way, her heart pounding it's way up her throat.

“Did you want her to?”

Sansa looks away to the snows, to the beast flapping its wings, and blinks away tears.

“I think so.”

Arya nudges into her side then. Wraps her arms around her sister’s frame under her furs, and Sansa’s tears fall freely.

“I’m assuming it didn’t go so well?”

Sansa lets out a nasally laugh, an ugly thing that she would hide if it were anyone else.

“I let her but I thought she was trying to… I don’t know what I thought. I was scared. I thought, maybe, she wanted to use me. She wouldn’t exactly be the first, would she?”

“No,” Arya tightens her grip, “But I think you’re wrong about her.”

She swallows, digging grooves into her palm. “I want to be.”

“I know after everything that’s happened to you, it’s hard to trust anyone. But what political benefit does bedding you actually have? She already secured the North.”

Sansa isn’t quite sure how to respond. Knows that if she does, her voice will break. Her cheeks will flood once more.

She settles on, “There’s no time for it, anyway. Not in war. And she is a queen. She can’t be seen with a woman.”

“A queen who has fucked people outside of marriage unable to have children. And you’re the Lady of Winterfell. Who gives a shit? She certainly doesn’t if she tried to stick her tongue down your throat.”

“You have such a way with words.”

She knows Arya is grinning, “I know.”

Sansa snorts. “I really did miss you, regardless of how annoying you are.”

Arya shakes with laughter. “You, too.”

They watch Viserion as their laughter subsides, Sansa suddenly feeling lighter than she has for some time.

She turns to face her sister staring at the dragon with wild eyes, looking very much like the girl who obsessed over Old Nan’s stories that she remembered. “Maybe he’s just missing home. Although, I suppose they don’t really have a home, do they?”

The sadness that strikes her then is overwhelming. She had uprooted Lady and taken her to a place that thawed Northerners from the inside out. Lady had lost her life for it. She didn’t want the same to happen to Daenerys’ dragons. She didn’t want them to be alone in a strange place.

“We should help him,” She says through a rush as he crashes to the ground with another cry.

“Help him? Help him how?”

“He is alone in foreign lands, missing his family. Maybe he just needs a friend.”

“A friend,” Arya laughs, half-mad, “And what if it eats you?”

Drogon hadn’t thought to hurt her yesterday, Sansa thought. Not once. He had acted like a hound around a stranger. She looks back to the golden creature and notes he is significantly smaller than the others, though as big as any ship she had seen dock in Blackwater Bay. 

“It's worth a shot,” She suggests, exhilarated as she moves to clamber down the cobbled stairs, and she thinks perhaps she is growing mad.

She hears nothing more of her sister but for her feet clambering behind her. No matter how determined she feels, dragons are still fire made flesh, and her sister is the best fighter she has ever known. She will always feel safe by her side.

Viserion falters when Sansa begins a trek through the snow. It's up to her ankles, soaking into her skirts. He gives a high-pitched noise, following both of them with sharp eyes. Surprisingly, she does not feel scared.

“It's alright,” She calls above the howl of the winds, holding out a tentative, open palm. “We won’t hurt you.”

She continues when he doesn’t move, “I know you’re frightened. That you miss your siblings. We’re friends with your mother. Aren’t we, Arya?”

The dragon looks between the two of them, shaking his head with a chirp. Arya laughs in disbelief, innocent wonder erupting on her face. It makes Sansa grin, despite the chill or the gigantic beast in front of her, and she feels much like the girl out of her depth she once was.

“Yes.”

She braves another step forward, an arms width away, and reaches out a hand. It connects with golden scales, their heat burning through even the thick leather of her gloves, and she finds her eyes filling. Arya gasps behind her, and she imagines her eyes to be wide. 

Sansa swallows and pets tentatively at his snout. He lowers his head with a huff.

“It's rather awful being stuck here alone, I know,” She whispers to him, and he huffs again. She can’t help but laugh. 

He blinks at her, eyes molten gold, and she can’t quite believe this is happening. She’s petting a _dragon_. A creature born of smoke and miracles. In Winterfell, of all places, a place she was certain would never be home again.

“We should move him to the stables,” Arya steps forward wearily, touching a hand to Viserion’s horns at the base of his skull. Her eyes squeeze shut as she exhales, her smile so wondrous and innocent. It's almost foreign on her face.

“How the hell do you suggest we do that?”

“There are two separate stables in the castle,” Arya shrugs her shoulder. Her hand trembles, her voice high in wonder. “Maybe you should ask his mother.”

Sansa shoots her a look, one she hopes resembles a glare, and Arya purses her lips in response. She scarcely holds it in for a second, before snorting a laugh.

“Sorry, sorry,” She pets Viserion one last time, who chirps between the two of them, and steps back. “We should get back inside. We’re already late.”

“For what?”

“I might’ve promised Jon I’d drag you to sup with everyone.”

She sighs, watches Viserion settle to sleep. “Fine.”

* * *

The dining is uneventful. Tyrion speaks with her, expressing his concern for his queen and her penchant for brutality. That everything rides on her winning without violence. Which includes the surrender of his sister.

She doesn’t know how to explain the nausea that clings to her throat as she leaves.

When she leaves for her chambers and falls asleep, she dreams of swords clanging together and dragonfire heating her skin. The throne melted to a molten stump with Cersei’s skeleton slumped atop it.

Drogon’s cry wakes her.

She’s pulling herself out of bed and putting on her furs on autopilot before she’s even properly awake. She lets her hair stay loose and wild, uncaring. She must see if Daenerys is alright.

One quick look outside the window tells her it's scarcely dawn anyways, the sky still a deep, dark blue. The thick clouds spun across it like wave crescents, ready to spill at any moment. A matter of hours, at most. 

It was lucky Daenerys had escaped the flurry.

When she catches sight of her in the yard, her breath quickens. 

Daenerys’ hair is wild, a mess of soot and unkempt curls, silver hidden almost entirely. The bells in it still jingle when she steps off of Drogon’s wing and allows him to fly off to his brothers.

A light coat of ash covers her face and her dress, the garment torn in several places. 

“Sansa,” She says, her voice hoarse with overuse, and the way she says it is almost a command. Sansa’s insides curl.

“I’m glad to see you well,” She greets, swallows as her voice cracks.

“And I, you,” She steps close, tucks Sansa’s hair behind her ear, and she suppresses a shiver at the thump that grazes the blotchy apple of her cheek. “Have you just woken?”

“I wanted to see you. If - if it went well, I mean. They fought back?”

Daenerys’ full lips curve in a smirk. 

“They tried,” Daenerys takes her arm, “I assume everyone heard my arrival, I want to reveal what happened as soon as I may. Would you like to walk with me?”

“Of course,” She notes how small the queen is this close, how truly delicate she is. She is flesh and blood, just as the rest of the realm and any one of those soldiers could have struck her down. “Are you - you’re sure that you’re alright? You don’t wish to bathe first?”

Daenerys stops her with a hand to her shoulder, “Are you offering?”

“I - Of course not,” She stammers, and Daenerys watches her for a moment, a corner of her lips upturned. Her eyes dip to the rising pink at Sansa’s neckline for a moment, and she remembers she’s in little more than her smallclothes. Just as Daenerys had been that night. 

So much and so little has changed since then that it's almost laughable.

Daenerys tugs gently at her furs and tightens them further around her frame. She strokes a hand down the front with a small smile, and when she looks up to Sansa, it drops.

Sansa stands frozen, attention brought to the bob of Daenerys’ throat, the worrying of her lips. She wants to do something stupid like reach out for her, guards and men be damned.

She clenches her hands beneath her furs.

“Coming out in your sleepwear wasn’t very wise,” Daenerys’ lashes twitch before she looks away, and begins to walk them towards the hall. “You just secured me two allies and the upper hand, Sansa, I would do anything in thanks if you asked.”

It takes Sansa a minute to think back to where their conversation was at. She can only nod. She’s sure the pink high on her cheeks betrays her.

“Tyrion came to confess his worries to me yesterday,” She swallows, “I don’t think I was supposed to tell you. He doesn’t want you to kill his siblings.”

That has Daenerys tensing, “I wish he would listen to me more and quit undermining me. He agreed to help in this war and now he opposes it.”

“Maybe it's muscle memory. He’s only ever served his family. He’s never served someone good and kind. I’d imagine it's quite hard for him.”

Daenerys’ grin tightens her eyes, and she glows, despite the ash and grime that buries her.

“I’m taking that as misguided praise.”

“It wasn’t misguided,” She says, confident, and Daenerys falters.

“Then I thank you,” Her brows twitch as she laughs aloud, “...Again.”

“You’re welcome.”

Daenerys’ hand slides down her forearm to link their arms, and she’s surprised to find it _cold_. She found it strange, had thought the woman perpetually warm with all of that fire brimming inside her. It grounds her, oddly, makes her just as human as the rest of them despite her magic and her power.

She likes it.

Daenerys greets the Northern guards to the hall with a nod, and Sansa mimics it.

“We should be able to leave for the south sooner than thought now that the Vale is safely dealt with.”

“Let’s hope the weather cooperates,” Sansa says, and Daenerys’ face scrunches with a pout. “I don’t think even your children can handle the storm I’m sure is about to hit.”

“My children?” She tilts her head and peers up at Sansa. “I thought they were nothing but beasts to you.”

“I’ve been told I can be set in my ways on occasion.”

“You and I both,” Daenerys squints, her smile broad. Her hand burns on Sansa’s arm as she squeezes, though they’re raw with cold.

“Viserion missed you,” Sansa splutters the first thing she can think of and catches Arya dawdling at the doors. A signal for their conversation to come to its end. “I had him moved to the stables.”

Daenerys casts a look back to the entrance to the hall too. Sansa had thought she’d been perfectly subtle and bites her cheek as Daenerys spots her sister.

Then, Daenerys turns back to her, cheeks tinged brighter than the red on her nose.

“I felt it,” She smiles up at Sansa, like it's a secret, like they’re girls in the court whispering about knights and handkerchiefs. “I can’t explain my connection to them but I knew. You made him feel welcome in this strange place.”

Somehow, she thinks it's about more than Viserion.

It makes her stomach twist, something threatening to claw its way out. It makes her feel hot, and she has to look away.

“Thank you,” Sansa glances to the side again, a lack of guards and her little sister alike, and finds Daenerys much closer.

“Um,” She says, tongue like lead in her mouth, and Daenerys laughs. It's a beautiful sound, a song if anything, and a greater sight. 

“Would you like to sup with me tonight?”

“In the Hall?”

“At your chambers,” Daenerys cuts in, cheeks still rosy. Maybe it was the candlelight. “You’re free to decline. If you wish.”

“No. No, I would like that.”

“Oh. Then I shall see you later,” There’s that smile again, and Sansa answers it with one of her own before Jon’s cough interrupts.

“Sorry,” He says, not looking sorry at all, “Arya told the lords you arrived a little while back.”

Daenerys pulls a face to Sansa and Sansa only and drops her hand. She rubs at some of the blood crusted on her dress. Makes a point of dusting down ash as she begins to make her way to him.

“What did she tell them?”

“That my sister would be stalling you.”

Sansa, promptly, mouths a string of silent curse words at him over Daenerys’ shoulder. He gives a smile that is neither subtle nor hidden at all.

“It's not like I’m late against my will,” Daenerys turns back when she reaches Jon, “Aren’t you coming, Sansa?”

“I should probably go and find a dress and a comb, first. Besides, I have duties. I agreed to see to any issues the blacksmiths have today with their, uh, chainmail.”

If Daenerys doesn’t buy it then she neglects to mention as such, instead casting a bright smile her way.

“Later, then?”

She presses her lips together to quell her own smile. “Later.”

* * *

Sansa isn’t fretting.

Daenerys didn’t mean anything serious by her request, did she?

She wanted to thank Sansa for her help over the past couple of days, surely. It's what any decent leader would do to help their ally, it's what Sansa has done for many. But that doesn’t quell the fretting that makes her chest tight.

She busies herself with watching the snowfall through her window, frost growing up the glass with the flurry’s strengthening seemingly endless. She can scarcely see past the glass, now. Nobody could travel in that, she thinks, nevermind the largest army Westeros has seen.

The knock at the door shakes her out of her trance.

“I’m sorry I’m so late. Varys was teaching me of the previous wars after the meeting finished. I lost track of time.”

Daenerys looks worse than she had earlier in the morning. 

Her skin is clean and sweet-smelling once again, hair pristine and freshly braided, but it matters little compared to the purple rings below her eyes or the empty, nasal touch to her voice.

“Come in,” She steps back with a hand to the door, and Daenerys dips below it with little more than a blink.

She watches in bewilderment as Daenerys sits at the end of her bed, casting a look over to Sansa’s sewing tools and her latest creation with a twitch of her lips. It's a dress lined with fur, Stark grey, with red, ridged scales at the shoulder.

“I like the scales,” She comments, clears her throat. “It's quite beautiful.” 

“People in court would always pick apart my outfits. I thought such confirmation of our allyship would be a good idea.”

Daenerys smiles although her eyes don’t move from the corner. 

“You’re very talented.”

She hovers awkwardly. “Are you alright?”

Daenerys’ brows furrow. She looks up to Sansa, then, “Would you sit with me?”

“Of course.”

She lowers herself onto the bed beside her, hands cupped together.

“Would you like to talk about it?”

Daenerys turns her head to look at her, a sluggish movement.

Sansa continues, “We don’t… you don’t have to say anything, of course. That was presumptuous of me.”

“You bewilder me,” Daenerys says with ease, like the deep breaths between her words. She runs her hand down her skirts, smoothing out the intricately lined black and red fur. “I’m not sure what I’m feeling.”

“That’s alright,” Sansa watches the candlelight reflected in her eyes, flames dancing amongst striking violet. She chooses her next words wisely. “When things become too much for me, I seek out my mother. I don’t pray anymore but I still speak to her.”

“And this helps? Speaking to her?”

“Sometimes,” She winces as a howl of wind rattles the window. “Sometimes I just need to be alone.”

“I don’t think I want to be.”

“That’s alright, too.”

Daenerys inhales heavily, nods down at the furs they’re sat upon. Her breathing is rickety, almost like Sansa could hear as it courses through her body. 

“Tyrion agreed that your plan was a good idea. I expect a raven pledging support from the Vale while we wait out the worst of the snows.”

“Well, that’s good, isn’t it? I can write to my uncle who I know will declare his allegiance when he hears we’re fighting with you. Your men can march south without fear. This doesn’t please you?”

“It should,” Daenerys’ jaw tenses, “I have everything I ever wanted. The war is all but won, and yet I cannot shake it no matter how I try.”

“Shake what?”

“That it’ll all be ripped away. That I’ll fail. You understand, Sansa, that this is all I’ve ever known. That throne is all I have of my family and their legacy I must uphold. I don’t know what comes next.”

“I think you’re putting too much on your shoulders. You’ve already accomplished the impossible, you don’t need me to tell you that.”

“I know,” Daenerys’ breaths are uneven, and she stands hastily to take a goblet from Sansa’s nightstand. “Is this wine?”

“Ale,” Sansa corrects, “It tastes awful.”

Daenerys tips her head back anyway, throat bobbing until she’s lowering the goblet to the stand again. She wipes her mouth with the back of a shaking hand.

“I’ve been having terrors for months. Every night. Each time, I fail. The people or my children or myself. They make me nothing but angrier, more impatient. It's like… well. It's rather ridiculous.”

“It isn’t,” Sansa insists. “Believe me.”

Daenerys’ big eyes flit between her and her own lap. “It feels like King’s Landing is calling to me. I haven’t told anyone but Missandei. I feel mad with it.”

“You’re afraid,” Once Sansa voices it, it is so blindingly obvious that she feels like the least like-minded person in Westeros. That pristine image of Daenerys she had, of the fearless Targaryen Queen who burnt any kind of opposition.. well. Daenerys had already broken it down. It's nothing but rubble, now.

She notes, for the first time, just how dark the rings below Daenerys’ eyes are. Much like bruising. 

“Being human does not make you mad,” She frowns at Daenerys’ scoff, sliding a hand to her cheek. It's too late to take it away once she realises what she’s done, and Daenerys leans into it. “Fear is a perfectly okay thing. Any leader who questions herself is better than one who doesn’t. In my opinion.”

Daenerys’ laughter is wet, overshadowed by her swallow. “I thought you believed me arrogant?”

“Not anymore,” Sansa thumbs her cheek. “I escaped the Boltons months ago. Ramsay still haunts me. I dream of him, I see his shadow. Of my mother and my brother and the Lannisters. You’re not mad.”

Daenerys wraps her hand around the back of Sansa’s. “There are a lot of reasons I want Cersei dead. The horrors she inflicted on you and your family terrifies me.”

Sansa looks away. “What will you do once you’ve taken the throne from her? What does it mean to you?”

“Everything. I’ll be correcting the wrongs the Lannisters and Baratheons wrought upon my house.”

“I know what it means to your family. That’s not what I’m asking.”

Daenerys’ eyes glisten. “All I knew of them was the stories Viserys would tell me as a girl. All I have of my mother is this ring. When he died, I knew I _had_ to take it back. It's my chance to do right by people. I want to make a better world, or try my best to.”

“You will,” Sansa says, knows it true. “So many people believe in you for you not to.”

“Do you?”

Sansa breathes out, her breath warm in a cold room. She can’t help but think of that night again. How Daenerys had pleaded for her support.

“I do. I want to help you. If you’ll let me.”

“It’d be an honour.”

Daenerys watches her with wet eyes. She pulls Sansa’s hand down to the space between them. She squeezes it.

“I’m... I’m sorry about this. I’m sure you were looking forward to actually eating.”

“It's okay,” She appears so small. Human. “I could ask someone to fetch us something if you’re hungry.”

“No need. That was never the point of why I wanted to sup with you. Neither was this conversation.”

She inhales, not sure what to do with that. “Would you like more ale?”

“Absolutely not,” Daenerys’ lashes flutter as she blinks owlishly up at her. “Will you stay with me?”

Sansa’s ears burn. “I’m not sure, I… I have things to attend to. We both have our duties.”

She’s grasping at excuses and Daenerys knows it. She looks away. 

“Can I..” Her voice is _quiet,_ it's airy. It hitches, her face twisted and her lips pressed together. Like she’s trying not to cry. “Just a moment, then?”

Sansa would give her so much more, she thinks, if she could. Her heart is heavy, and she pulls herself up. “Shall I call down a guard and ask for lemon cakes? They’re my favourite when I... ”

She cuts herself off when Daenerys’ nostrils flare, her throat bobbing. She stops at the door and steps back to sit beside her. 

She holds out her hand wordlessly on her own lap, heart in her throat, and Daenerys’ slides in to fill the gaps. 

Sansa wishes that perhaps Theon were here. Jon, even. She’d never been good at comforting another person like this. She didn’t know what to say. What does one do when faced with a queen so open and vulnerable like this? One who had come to _Sansa_. 

“Lemon cakes would be wonderful,” Daenerys lay her head on her shoulder. “When I was a young girl, the home I had for a time had a lemon tree. I’ve not had one since.”

“They’re better baked into cakes,” She retorts, and Daenerys tucks her face into her neck.

* * *

The next day is, according to Sam, possibly the last before a true blizzard. The kind only Winter brought, a thing herself and many of those around her could not remember the harshness of. But she knew the dangers of it and agreed to prepare as well as she could.

That also meant heading into Wintertown to distribute food and limber.

Jorah had suggested Daenerys attend with the Starks, a show of physical allyship for the people to see, one that allowed them to bear witness to a queen they barely knew. It was a smart idea indeed, and Sansa had quietly revelled in the prospect.

“They could be barred inside for weeks,” Lord Royce explains ahead of her to Jon, in charge of distributing the grains to each household. Daenerys and Davos border her, deep in conversation about winter in Dorne. Unsullied guards surround them, and she wonders just how cold they must be in their leather. She makes a note to mention that when they return to Winterfell.

“I had the butchers cure meats with salt too,” Jon motions to the wagon behind them, squinting above it and up at the murky sky. “Families can’t survive on wheat for weeks on end.”

“That was a wise decision indeed, Your Grace,” Royce nods then pales, regarding Daenerys. “Or, My Lord. Apologies.”

“No matter,” Daenerys shakes her head with a quirk of her lips. “You said this storm may last for weeks? Can’t we house the people in Winterfell to wait it out?”

Jon replies, “They’re proud people, many of them won’t want to make the journey.”

“That, and we don’t have the room, not with all of our men packed in the grounds already,” Sansa cuts in, “The best way to protect them is to allow them the choice to stay in their homes. Hopefully, enough will accept the food we offer.”

Daenerys nods at that, gloved hands pressed tight together. “Alright, then. Where do we begin?”

Lord Royce eyes her for a moment, her violet eyes that track the town square, her red furs and the black leather beneath. He motions for the wagon to halt. 

“We distribute it among whoever shows up.”

Jon heads forward with Grey Worm at his side, the two of them going straight to unpacking limber. 

Sansa looks away and over the crowd forming, their grimaces and enquiring eyes. She smiles to a young girl peeking through the front and watches her flush as she tugs at her mother’s sleeve. 

They step forth, the cloth coating them torn and threadbare. The girl looks between her and the Unsullied guard, and Sansa raises a hand.

“Hello,” She greets as she hears the men uplift one of many sacks somewhere behind her. “Are you alright?”

“We’ve never met royalty before,” Her mother answers, tightening her threads around herself.

“I’m sorry that this is the first time, in such circumstances,” Sansa smiles between them, “We’re here to offer you facilities to prepare for the storm.”

“We appreciate it, My Lady,” She says, gratefulness bleeding into her tone.

“Of course,” Sansa smiles, “I have to say, it wasn’t just my decision. Everyone here wanted to help you. We want you to be safe.”

The girl cranes her neck behind Sansa. “Is it true there are dragons in the castle?”

“Only one inside, actually,” Daenerys steps closer, and Sansa swallows hard at the hand at her back. “He’s hurt so he needs to rest. His brothers are elsewhere. Do you like them?”

The child nods, shy from where she hides behind her mother’s arm. “I thought it was made up that they came here.”

“They’re here because of me and I’m here to help you,” Daenerys bends down, face to face with her. “What’s your name?”

“Alys,” Gripping her mother’s sleeve, Alys steps forward.

Daenerys’ eyes crease. “Well, it's lovely to meet you, Alys. Tell me, is there anyone else in your home?”

“Just my husband,” Her mother says. She readily accepts the sack of grain that is presented to her, struggling to carry it in her hands. “He’s fighting for you.”

“We’re grateful,” Sansa’s smile falters. “We could have someone help get it to your home if you need.”

“Thank you,” She regards Sansa and Daenerys both with a small, just visible above her winter clothes she wraps herself in. 

“I greatly appreciate your husband’s support,” Daenerys lay a hand on her shoulder, “We will win this war and you will have him back, I promise you. This winter will be a new dawn. No more wars, not if I can help it.”

Sansa’s chest squeezes as the girl stumbles forward to throw her arms around her legs. Laughing, Daenerys dismisses Grey Worm’s concern and shares her amusement with the girl’s mother.

“I remember your fathers,” She says. “Eddard and the mad one. I never knew either of them. Only the disregard for us common folk they had. Or the hatred, in Aerys’ case.”

Daenerys’ chest heaves. “I’m sorry that-”

“The only thing about you that reminds me of him is that hair of yours. Seven Hells, you could’ve killed us all. Yet here you are.”

“Thank you,” Daenerys’ throat bobs. She looks away to a group of Khals. She speaks in gentle Dothraki, a request perhaps, as they nod away. They lift her sack from her hands and pass through the crowd. “These men will help you get supplies home if you show them the way.”

“We can’t thank you enough,” The woman motions for Alys to come with her, and they follow after the collection of Khals down the street.

Sansa observes the crowd that now lines up where Jon and the wagon of supplies reside, and reaches for Daenerys’ hand. She catches the tips of her fingers, squeezing them in her own before letting go.

“The things Jon told me of your father, I can hardly believe he was real,” Daenerys laughs at herself, “I’m told he refused to have me killed. What an odd thing, how strange it is that we stand together now.”

Sansa hums. “He was a good man. The best, actually. And I treated him awfully until he lost his head.”

“He would be proud of you, of all of you,” Daenerys’ tone leaves little chance of disagreement. She smiles at those who look their way, before directing it to Sansa. It makes her cheeks heat. “But we’re not our fathers. We’ve worked too hard to even entertain the thought.”

“No,” Sansa agrees. She thinks of her father, his cropped hair and that tight smile. “I believe my father would’ve liked you, though. Probably would’ve marched south for you by now.”

“I wish I could thank him for what he did.”

“I wish I’d said many things to him before, well.”

“He knows,” Daenerys lifts her chin with ease to her brow. “Somehow, I’m sure he does.”

“Your brother was loved here, my father told me. I’d imagine he’s very proud that you’re his sister too.”

* * *

They’re well over a week into a blizzard and everyone is growing tired with it. Antsy to get moving south, training in every safe corner they can find and making the best of what food they have. They’re low on anything but grains having been unable to hunt anything for days.

It's making Sansa antsy, too.

The war counsels increase - an unspoken daily occurrence now. Sansa even finds herself helping out in the kitchens to distribute soup among the increasing common people with Gilly and Davos in the yards. Even still, she seems to receive more reports by raven than she has ever before that demand hours of attention.

Essentially, Winterfell is a very busy and very cramped place.

She makes visiting Viserion an occurrence at least once a day between demands and finds Daenerys there, too. Eventually, they decide to go together in the early morning. It allows them to ignore what they were heading for once the storms let up in placement of growing closer.

Those hours become her favourite.

Daenerys finds her before the stables one day.

She is making her way past the kitchens, smiling at each cook who dares to make eye contact, when someone reaches from an alley for her. They yank and pull her forth with surprising strength, and she wastes no time in reaching for the blade in her dress Arya insisted she had.

“Wait!” Daenerys heaves as she laughs, her hand over Sansa’s mouth. She hadn’t even realised she’d screamed. More of a wail, perhaps. 

She raises a brow at the smaller woman, gesturing down to the hand covering her face.

Daenerys presses her lips together in an attempt to discontinue laughing. It's not effective.

“Well, are you going to scream again?”

Sansa blinks. Speaks, muffled, against her palm. “No.”

Daenerys relents, something in her eyes bright as she peers up at her. “Good.”

Sansa steps back against the opposite wall, collecting her breath. “Are the stables not good enough to talk in now?”

“I wanted to see you before,” Daenerys pushes aside her furs to show a small saddlebag. She smiles with the corner of her mouth and Sansa can’t resist the pull of it, smiling herself.

“So you pull me into an alleyway?”

“You always take this route,” She excuses, “Plus, I didn’t fancy being spied upon.”

“What are you talking about?”

“We are going riding.”

“Riding?” Sansa repeats. “Is it not snowing? Isn’t that the reason we are stuck here?”

“Sam says it's let up enough to ride out for a few hours. I figured you might like that. To get away from the castle with me.”

Just that is enough to make Sansa’s cheeks warm despite the cold. Is that all she could mean? Surely, there must be another motive for this. Daenerys would not go to so much trouble just to spend time alone with her like that. Would she?

“If it's no bother,” She settles on, wrapping her furs tight around her. 

“I want you to come, of course it's not,” Daenerys smiles with her whole face. She steps forth, taking Sansa’s wrist under her furs. Something that had become commonplace in the last week or so since she’d come to Sansa’s chambers, Daenerys seeking her touch. 

She didn’t mind so much as she instead panicked in her own head until she let go.

She lets Daenerys pull her down the alley anyway, and is so distracted by the warmth on her bare skin, she doesn’t notice they’re heading for the courtyard until they’re at the clearing.

“Why not the stables?”

Daenerys blows out a breath. “Do you think people don’t know we meet there? Do you really think your sister would let us leave unguarded?”

It was smart. Devious more so. She couldn’t help the laugh bubbling up and out of her, and Daenerys grins at her side, licking a chuckle from her lips. And honestly, Sansa is only human for following the movement, isn’t she?

“That’s a good point.”

“I just thought a ride might be a welcome change from the same three rooms inside the castle. Not that I don’t like it. I just hate being stuck inside of it.”

“No, me too. You’re not the only one.”

“Good, I was feeling rather apprehensive about asking you.”

That stumps her. “You were?”

Daenerys dips her head. “It was just a silly idea. I wasn’t sure you’d agree to it.”

“Well,” Sansa bites her cheek, “You haven’t even told me where you’re taking me.”

“Jon told me there are woodlands that go on for miles around here. Old towers, lakes, that kind of thing. I figured it’d be nice to see some of it before I leave.”

“I’d like that,” Sansa admits, “I don’t have much experience with riding. Especially in the snow.”

“It's a good job I do then,” Daenerys tilts her head to look up with a quirk of her mouth, “You can always hold onto me if you’re so worried.”

Was she teasing Sansa? The way she’d seen Arya and Gendry dance around each other with words of equal bite. Is that what this was? Or was Sansa misreading everything? She had a talent for that.

She’s too late to reply as Jon brings out a grey stead from the direction of the soldiers’ stables.

“Don’t be long,” are his only words, the eyebrow raised at their proximity says more. 

“Thank you,” Daenerys nods to him, and he at least smiles as he walks back the way he came. Nobody about the yard this early seems to notice anything, and with that, Sansa can breathe. 

She watches Daenerys pull herself up into the saddle. She leans her hand out to Sansa to help her clamber up too, and the contact makes her falter for a second before she does climb up behind her. 

Daenerys settles Sansa’s hand at her waist, and she slides both arms around her rather gingerly. Still, she allows herself to revel in her warmth and the soft furs under her grip as they ride out of the hunter’s gate.

She peers ahead at the Kingsroad and the forests beyond it. “Do you know where you’re headed?”

“No,” Daenerys’ laughter comes out as steam. “Just to follow this road there and back. Are you cold?”

“Are you?” Sansa recounts, using it as an excuse to shuffle close anyway. She leans into her back, and she’s sure she isn’t imagining Daenerys swaying back into her and closing the space. She can’t possibly, not when Daenerys’ thigh brushes her own.

“No.”

She swallows, her tongue thick and heavy. “Well, good, then.”

Daenerys hums, vibrating against Sansa’s chest, and she realises she hadn’t thought this through very much at all.

Being so close to her was captivating. She couldn’t think much at all like the lady she was taught to be. Any kind of critical, smart though all but evaporated at one touch. One word from her.

She had silently resented Robb when she thought back to his marriage to Talisa, knowing those broken vows had killed him. A marriage of love was uncommon, especially in Westeros, and she could never have made much sense of it.

Now, she could.

“Jon warned me the snow might be too thick if we go too far off of the road,” Daenerys says as they come to the breach of thick, tall trees.

“Did you put any of my other siblings up to this? Or just him?”

Daenerys snorts. “Just him. Why?”

“Because he can’t keep secrets,” Sansa breathes in the chill of the air, a stark contrast to the warmth she clings to even as the horse slows into a trot. “Arya would tell on me when I’d been a brat as a girl, to Jon and Robb mostly, and everyone would know by the end of the day.”

Daenerys looks back to her with a smile, cheeks full. “I think it's sweet. Your family acts like one. I can’t say I’ve encountered that before.”

“You’re encountering it now, aren’t you?”

She feels Daenerys still for a moment. “I’d like to think so.”

“You are,” Sansa insists, “Davos, Sam, Brienne, they are just as important to our family as my family itself now. You, as well. You’re saving us from a monster."

“I am,” Daenerys looks ahead once again, her tone quieter. “Maybe I’d like to be remembered for more than that.”

“By my family?”

Daenerys says something under her breath she suspects as Valyrian.

Only forestry surrounding them feels suffocating now, barely a snowflake passing through the canopy, and she can’t help but feel like a fool. What she’d said wrong, she didn’t know, but she knew she’d done something.

She fumbles to fix it, heart pounding in her throat.

“I like you being here,” She says in the silence, stomach dancing as she still clung to her as they trod across a floor of rotting leaves. “I was so awful to you, at first. I wish I hadn’t been so ridiculous.”

“We didn’t know each other then,” Daenerys brushes off, as nonplussed as the winds that follow them. “I like it here too. And I like being with you.”

Those knots in her stomach tighten, and she’s glad that Daenerys cannot see her because she can feel heat rushing to her face. To her gut.

“That night,” Daenerys begins, audibly swallowing. “I wanted that. I really wanted to kiss you. Is that okay?”

Sansa couldn’t trust herself to speak. 

All this time and she didn’t know how much it meant to hear that until she did. None of that had been a game, not one bit of it. She’d wanted Sansa and had gone for it. And Sansa had pushed her away out of fear. Mistrust. What a fool.

“Yes,” She clears her throat as soon as she speaks, her pulse spiking. 

Daenerys doesn’t speak for a while, and Sansa has half a mind to continue watching her. She catches the horizon instead. A pretty, cobble house sits by a lake. It will be frozen over soon, she realises, possibly by the end of these snows.

“I wanted it,” She whispers to the winds and the leaves they trod on. “I didn’t know then. But I did.”

She feels Daenerys’ torso rise and fall. It does nothing but pull at her stomach more.

“We should stop here,” Daenerys audibly clears her throat, pulling the horse to a stop. “We shouldn’t go too far.”

Sansa takes it for what it is. “The snow can come down fast. We’ll have to keep notice of the winds.”

“Wise idea,” Daenerys watches in silent bemusement as Sansa pulls herself off of the saddle. 

Sansa fumbles for a second on the slippery, muddied ground. She reaches to help Daenerys off of the steed too, and when she does, it's with her hands tight on Sansa’s shoulders. She slips herself, tripping over her own dress, and Sansa has to bite her lip to keep from laughing.

“I didn’t laugh when you fell,” Daenerys pouts, teasing lilt to her voice, lifting her skirts from under her heel. She realises she’s in already scuffed leather boots, the very same she sees the Khals walk around in.

“It was funny,” Sansa defends, and Daenerys lifts her chin with a curl of her lip. 

“If you say so,” She looks away to hide a smile herself, and Sansa can’t help but watch her for a moment longer than she should. 

When she drags her gaze away to where Daenerys stares, she finds a stag stood across the lake. It drinks from the water, peaceful and unaware, and she hears her quiet disclamation of awe.

Sansa ties the horse’s reins to a sturdy tree trunk, shushing as it whinnies. “Are there not many stags in Essos?”

“Not much of anything at all,” She watches it with wide eyes.

“I’ll have to show you more of the wildlife when the war is done. Maybe I could take you for walks through the Godswood.”

“I hope that’s a promise,” Daenerys smiles back at her. “I’d like that.”

“I think Sam has a book or two about the animals of Westeros in the pile he took from the Citadel,” A thought strikes her then. “I’m certain at least one covers your family. I could ask him.”

Daenerys forgoes the stag entirely to turn to her. Sansa cannot control her face or the way her eyes drop to the turn of her lips. She tries. But she’s not fast enough to hide it.

Daenerys surprises her entirely when she hugs her.

Arms curve around her and fingers dig into her back, a pretty head of silver hair resting on her shoulder. Sansa brings her own arms up, gingerly, to hold her too. She lowers her face to her hair, breathing in those salts of Essos, and Daenerys tightens her hold.

It's a moment of disbelief that she’s still questioning as Daenerys tentatively pulls away, but the smile that lights her features cements her adoration.

“I don’t know much about my ancestors, even less about my family. Only what other people have told me when I was brave enough to ask,” She seems half-tempted to hug Sansa again and settles for taking her hands. “Thank you, Sansa.”

Her heart stutters. “Sam was the one who took the books.”

“I told him I’d pardon him,” Daenerys doesn’t miss a beat, “I wish I could repay you.”

“You’re going to kill Cersei yourself, are you not?”

At that, Daenerys inhales. Nods.

“I swear it.”

“That’s all the repayment I need.”

Daenerys sucks her lips between her teeth. She looks back to that stag, and a snowflake falls upon her cheek. Another, melting into her hair, and more. She blinks one away with a quiet laugh, and steps closer to Sansa. 

“I don’t want to talk about Cersei,” She says, hesitating before wrapping her arms around Sansa. “Is that alright?”

Sansa grows hot, even with the snow and the chill on her breath. She nods wordlessly, even as Daenerys leans her temple on Sansa’s collarbone. She still watches across the pond, and Sansa wonders if she can hear just how much her heart pounds.

“We should get back soon.” 

“Yes, we should.”

She snakes a gloved hand around Daenerys’ frame anyway. Just for a moment, a fleeting thing. She deserved as much.

* * *

When they return to Winterfell, it is with a flurry at their back and many Khals on the Kingsroad.

Daenerys talks in Dothraki for quite some time, desperate and half fond as she regards Sansa and the woods behind them, merely a speck so close to Winterfell.

“They are angry I left in such weather,” She explains from behind Sansa in the saddle. Then, she laughs. “They’re also angry that I misled you into coming out in the snows.”

“Oh,” Sansa’s surprise is evident, she’s sure, and she tries her best to convey her thanks to them while covered in snow. She thinks her smile and Daenerys’ talking must do something because they laugh, too.

“I wasn’t misled,” She says once they are past Winterfell’s gates and she can see Arya frown from within the crowd. “I wish I could spend more days like I have today.”

Daenerys grins even as they are surrounded by many in the yard. “That hunt in the Godswood… I look forward to it.”

When she returns to her chambers later that day, she very easily imagines the hand she slips between her legs to be Daenerys’.

* * *

“You pushed me away,” Daenerys says across the map the following morning, the two of them the earliest to arrive for the counsel morning. It was scarcely dawn, and she could feel the silence of the castle. “I couldn’t stop thinking about it.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I don’t want you to be,” Daenerys’ eyes widen, “You don’t have to tell me what I did wrong. But I regret it.”

“You did nothing. I was just… it wasn’t you. A memory, perhaps, of something that happened here. He would rip my clothes when he...”

She has to break off, something catching in her throat. Daenerys casts a side-eye to the doors, very much closed and silent beyond, and crosses the room. Takes Sansa’s hands like it's nothing and presses her lips to her wrist.

“My husband hurt me as well,” A far off look comes to her eyes. “I wanted to love him. I convinced myself I did. I think I just loved the power that came with being his after years of suffering.”

“My first wasn’t like that,” Sansa’s mind trails to the courts, of Baelish finding her in the middle of premature glee when she believed Margaery’s arrival meant her freedom. “Tyrion never touched me. Everything outside of it was torture, though. The better of the two, I think.”

Daenerys’ throat bobs. “I wish I’d sailed sooner. I would have liked to see how the Boltons and their ilk would have fared against my children.”

A smile comes to Sansa’s face. “He got what he deserved, I gave it to him.”

“Good,” Daenerys releases Sansa’s hand to palm her cheek instead and she stutters with it. Stills with the thumb that catches her cheekbone. “I hope you know I plan to give Cersei the same fate. Most likely worse. Does that concern you?”

Sansa shakes her head. Maybe back when Daenerys had first arrived, possibly, but not now. Definitely not. “I’ve always wanted to be among the crowd when they take her head. I don’t care how you do it so long as she pays.”

“She’s going to,” Daenerys insists, hand curling on her jaw. “She won’t hurt you again. That I can promise you.”

She exhales, leaning into the hand on her face. It grounds her even in such a conversation, and her head dips as Daenerys’ lifts. Violet eyes dip to Sansa’s mouth before they fall closed, a soft breath hitting Sansa’s lips.

She shivers at a brush of their mouths when the doors pull open.

Daenerys lets out a quiet sigh, falling back onto the heels of her feet. Her hands grip the oak table, her knuckles white, and Sansa isn’t sure of what to do with herself after that. They’d almost kissed. Would have if it weren’t for their duties. She hadn’t imagined that.

Jon nods his greetings with Arya, Davos and the rest of the counsel following in. Bran is the last with Podrick pushing his chair, and he takes residence closer to the fire.

“Good morning,” Sansa clears the tremble from her throat, leaning forward with her hands on the map.

“Apologies for the interruption,” Bran says behind her, quiet enough it comes across as a mumble to anyone that wasn’t already watching. “I couldn’t hold them off.”

“It's... that’s okay, Bran. Thank you.”

Daenerys catches her frown, lifting a wordless brow. 

“Shall we begin?”

She throws herself into the meeting regardless, giving her own suggestions as to how the troops may be set out among the city walls and hills nearby. 

It doesn’t take long until it registers that the meeting is taking place in the same room of the library tower that their septa had taught her in.

She hasn’t been in here since she was a child. Not since Old Nan’s stories, embroidery by the fire and Septa reprimanding Arya for not behaving like a lady should as Father laughed from the doorway. It almost hurt to think of now, what she once had. All she took for granted.

She’d just got her family back and regained her home, everything she’d ever wanted after father’s head had been taken, and yet she could do nothing but worry away thinking of losing them to the tyrant in the south.

Of losing Daenerys to her, too. That fear only increases with each day forward. It churns away and eats at her. Her logic. She can no longer ignore it. She couldn’t bear to lose her either.

The thought of sailing for King’s Landing makes her stomach twist, her ribs ache. A city as rotten and cruel as it's ruler, decaying from the inside out, must be impossible to save, she thought. Decades of injustice and atrocities each of them had had a taste of.

Could something like that be bettered?

Meereen had been under Daenerys’ reign. Former slaves prospered as free men, and any who dare oppose that freedom, eradicated. And Winterfell, once cinders and home to monsters, stood as reborn as Sansa herself. Open to any who wished to join.

She was still uncertain. But she knew that Daenerys _was_ to reclaim and rectify the city and she wouldn’t mind being a part of it.

“Sansa.”

Her blinks are harsh as she pulls herself out of her thoughts. It's Missandei’s hand on her shoulder, a light touch, and she pulls it away when Sansa looks up.

“Sorry,” She meets Daenerys’ eyes, wide in a question of concern, “I was just thinking.”

“That’s alright,” Daenerys breathes out this odd laugh, motioning toward Jorah. “Continue.”

Jorah smiles her way before he continues with the scroll, an odd expression on such a hardened face, and she’s reminded of her father for a moment.

He reads on, Cersei’s warning ringing clear.

_Bend the knee to the rightful queen or suffer the fate of all traitors and be slaughtered with the usurper and her savages. Scorpions will come for her beasts, and if you join her, your men with them. Bend the knee or die._

Everyone looks to Daenerys. Her heart pounds as Daenerys reaches over her to take the wooden lion figurine from her hands that she’d been idly toying with.

Tyrion’s face is hard to read, “My sister appears to be upset about the forces we have. With Daenerys’ and the northern armies alone, we outnumber her. The Vale and Riverrun, we have word will stand with us if needed thanks to Sansa.”

Arya’s brows rise, “This is without taking your dragons into account.”

“Six kingdoms stand beside us, I’m certain she knows the war is lost,” Daenerys settles the figurine down beside the sole Kraken of King’s Landing. “After all she’s done, I’m glad she fears us.”

“Me too,” Sansa says, sends a smile Daenerys’ way, and watches her lips twitch. “All she has is the keep and a lowly pirate who won’t think twice if she dies. I’m glad she’s alone.”

“She will die a cruel death,” She speaks with such conviction, a cold front to her voice, that Sansa shivers. Want churns inside her, and she feels like a fool for it. “I’m true to my word.”

She looks away, somehow catching Tyrion’s eyes falling to the floor. She knows, if the hand tightening around the table is any clue, that Daenerys notices his reaction too.

She lays her hand atop Daenerys’, thumb at her wrist feeling the heat coursing through her and the quickness of her pulse.

Daenerys doesn’t speak, loosens her hand behind the table and away from the view of all but Sansa and Missandei, and allows Sansa to hold it.

“I think we’re done here,” Sansa calls, “There’s not much else to be discussed. The North and House Targaryen are undisputed allies and we march and sail for the south as soon as we are able. Reach will cut all supply to the city and force Cersei’s hand. We will wait for news from scouts before we sail. Are we in agreement?”

“Aye,” Jon clasps his hands together, “We’ll meet again tomorrow upon any news.”

Jorah lingers behind as the room clears out, his gaze unmoving from his queen, and it tugs at Sansa’s chest. 

“Khaleesi..”

“I’m fine,” She gives a quiet laugh, gesturing loosely with her free hand. “Go. Make sure Missandei doesn’t drink enough to make a giggling fool of herself.”

Jorah nods, bowing with his leave.

Once the doors shut, Daenerys breathes out a sigh.

“What was that?”

“You noticed it too?” Daenerys asks, shaky undertone to her voice. Whether from anger or not, she wasn’t sure. But she notices that the purple beneath Daenerys’ eyes is more pronounced today. She hasn’t slept.

“It makes sense for him to be upset, she is his family after all. And his weakness has always been his family, his need to see something redeemable in them.”

Daenerys scoffs, leaning back against the table and creasing the map. She toys with Sansa’s hand, thumbing the palm, and has Sansa flustered. That want is a monster eating away at her logic.

“It doesn’t make sense. I know they treated him awfully. And Cersei… Cersei is a monster.”

“I suppose, there’s some part of him that can’t entirely let go of his love for his family. But he knows what she is,” Sansa smiles, unmoving, “And he chose to follow you.”

Daenerys frowns down at their hands for a moment, apparently deep in thought. When she looks up, it's with calmer eyes. A sea of lilac, a riverbed after a storm. Beautiful, and yet, a formidable force.

“Why did you?”

Sansa isn’t expecting such a question or the abruptness of its proposal. 

“Before you, I vowed to never trust anyone but my family. So many people have used me like I thought you were going to. I couldn’t have been more wrong. It's what this country has made of me. I wish I hadn’t been so immature.”

“You can’t possibly blame yourself for distrusting me. I can never be more sorry for how people have treated you.”

“Not your fault,” Sansa dismisses, tightening her grip with clarity. “Jon’s passion for your cause isn’t something I take lightly and neither is my sister’s. I should have thanked you, the moment you arrived. No ruler in my lifetime has given the North a thought and yet here you are.”

“I want you to come with me,” Daenerys says, hastily so, “You have given me advice that I treasure. You didn’t bow to Tyrion or Varys, and you know the North and the court of King’s Landing better than anyone. It only makes sense for you to help me oversee it.”

Sansa’s inhale is sharp as she meets Daenerys’ gaze. It's firm and unwavering. Fills her with heat.

“And what of Jon’s crown?”

“I came here hoping to break the wheel, not add to it. Who is to say the North can’t have a king as well as a queen? Who am I to know what is best for a kingdom your siblings built up from nothing?”

“I… I cannot accept. I wouldn’t... There are so many more qualified for such a position.”

“And yet I want you,” Daenerys’ lips twitch, “You’re free to think about it on the sail for Dragonstone.”

“You really want me there?”

“Of course I do,” Daenerys says like it's that simple, that same, warm gaze centred on her. Those eyes, she thinks, worthy of songs. Something in them invites Sansa close. Her want for her burns at any rationality. “After Cersei is destroyed, I can’t think of a better person to be at my side than you.”

It feels much like that night in Daenerys’ chambers weeks ago. And yet so much has changed. Everything.

She’s not sure who moves first, herself or Daenerys’, but their lips meet halfway.

At first, it's clumsy, more open mouths brushing together than anything, and Sansa hopes her inexperience doesn’t show. There were no expectations that first time, driven by lust and lust only, but this means so much more to her. Daenerys does. 

Daenerys brings her hands to her cheeks, feather-light, and draws her closer. Tilts her face, their noses brushing, and kisses her properly. Sansa is sure, if it's still in motion, her heart is full.

Daenerys smiles against her mouth as her thumb strokes a path across her cheek, and Sansa’s chest tightens. It's enough to have her dizzy with giddiness. 

Once Daenerys properly parts Sansa’s lips with her own, tongue venturing inside, Sansa is shocked to hear a whine erupt from within herself. She grips Daenerys’ furs to steady herself, matching her vigour and feels disbelief as Daenerys’ breath hitches.

It's foreign, this kind of desire, but she can’t take enough. More; she pulls Daenerys into her, leaning back against the table. Daenerys lets out a soft moan, pulling away to press her mouth to someplace on Sansa’s neck.

There’s a focus of wet heat beneath her ear, teeth scraping her sensitive skin, and she groans. 

“Perhaps we should talk about this,” Daenerys pants in her ear, breath hot, and Sansa’s stomach flips.

“Perhaps,” Sansa agrees, nods in a daze, and leans in to kiss her again. 

“I’ve wanted to do that for quite a while,” Daenerys smiles against her mouth, catches Sansa’s lip between her teeth before pulling back to breathe.

She’s visibly heaving even above her furs, eyes little more than black. Something about the sight makes Sansa throb between her legs and she’s uncaring for any portrayal of the regal figure she’s supposed to be. At this moment, she could not give a shit about any politics at all.

Sansa steps into her space regardless of Daenerys’ walk backwards, emboldened by the eyes fixated on her lips and leans in to kiss her again. She can hear Daenerys’ subdued groan, one she cannot hide and wants to unearth it.

“You should have.”

Their next kiss is a messy, desperate thing, with Daenerys’ heady pants filling her ears and making her head spin. She claims Sansa’s mouth like she’s parched, and she matches the rashness. It's wondrous and exciting, and a moan escapes her when Daenerys sucks at her tongue.

To think, she could have had this weeks ago when Daenerys was so willing to give to her. But she’s glad that wasn’t the case. It wouldn’t have meant as much as it did to her now.

It's at that moment with Daenerys’ hands threading in her hair, that Missandei walks in with an exaggerated knock.

“What,” Daenerys growls, clearing her throat of its hoarseness, not stepping away. Something about it makes Sansa ache to touch her even more. “What’s wrong?”

Missandei looks toward Sansa, her face solemn, which pulls her out of it. “Apologies, Your Grace, Lady Stark. You’re requested in the Great Hall. Both of you.”

Daenerys blinks harshly, looking to Sansa with newly furrowed brows. “You’re sure we were both called for?”

“Apparently someone arrived at the gates asking only for you and Sansa. I know you are.. preoccupied.. but it seemed urgent.”

“Of course,” Sansa clears her throat, walking forward to Missandei. She thinks, for a moment, of any possible allies out there that they shared. Maybe… no. She would not allow herself to wish for something so improbable. “Lead the way.”

Even before they get to the Great Hall, plenty of voices are heard. Speaking over one another, albeit, yelling. Missandei looks between them as subtly as she can manage while they walk, which isn’t subtle in the slightest, and she would laugh if the situation weren’t so dire.

The Hall is overwhelmed with men as they step inside, and Sansa is quickly overwhelmed by the smell that comes with saltwater. 

Parting the crowd proves difficult, even with Daenerys’ presence beside her. Her irritancy dissipates entirely when Theon steps forward.

He stands with his shoulders square and looks right at her as she spots him, his hair clean and out of his face for the first time since she had found him in those kennels. 

She can't hold herself back from running toward him, and it seems he feels the same as they collide. He pulls her impossibly close, arms tight around her frame as she clings to him, and tears fall free without her account. 

“When we heard - heard of Yara. I thought..”

“Some of us escaped,” He heaves out, as out of breath as she is, and steps back with an attempt at one. He walks forth toward Daenerys and bows on one knee. “My Queen.”

Daenerys’ smile is stilted, and something in Sansa curdles. “Your sister?”

“I’ve come to ask your permission to get her back. I will sail alongside you with the ships I have. I will get her back. I will die trying.”

“Jorah thinks he wishes to use her to bargain freedom,” Daenerys’ brows furrow. “I won’t allow that to happen.”

“Me either. I shouldn’t have let him take her.”

“It's not your fault,” Sansa insists, stepping between them. “How did you know Daenerys was here?”

“Euron likes to talk,” Theon’s voice shakes, though he composes himself in time for him to regard Daenerys again. “Will you allow me to join you on the sail south?”

Daenerys’ features grow strangely blank, too placid for such a conversation as she flits between Theon and Sansa. Dwells on Sansa’s hand gripping his wrist just enough for Sansa to notice. 

“Yes, of course. You’re free to join us. We sail in several days, at most, are you sure you’ll be well enough for it?”

“I’ll be fine,” He pointedly avoids the melting snow that drips from his shoulders. “I have to try to find her. She’ll be in his ship, I know it. He _wants_ me to go after her. He’ll be waiting.”

“We sail for Dragonstone first. You’re welcome there. While my men will be surrounding the city, I’ll fly for the fleet and ambush them from the sky. You’ll hear when the battle begins. I’ll leave Euron’s ship for last. That’s all I can give you.”

“Thank you, Your Grace,” Theon nods his thanks, hands clasped together, and at that, Daenerys smiles genuinely. 

“Your sister is formidable, I’m sure she’s alright. No matter what Euron has done. I promise he will pay.”

“With fire and blood?” Asks one of his crewmates, the crowd jeering with laughter. 

Daenerys, unphased, merely squints. “I will burn his men, his ships, and feed his corpse to my children. We will get Yara back.”

Sansa cannot help the swell of pride at that. 

“Forgive my men,” Theon mutters at Daenerys, gripping Sansa’s hand again. “I’m so glad to have seen you. I’m not sure… Euron is a formidable fighter. I don’t know how this will play out.”

“No,” Sansa refuses to acknowledge the thought, “No, you’ll be fine and so will Yara. I know it.”

Daenerys cuts in. “Are you going to be sailing to Dragonstone with us?” 

“No, Your Grace. I want to be there before he is expecting your arrival. We’ll be leaving again tonight.”

Daenerys’ shoulders slouch, as though she is relieved. “Alright. I wish you luck in the wars to come, Theon Greyjoy.”

“Thank you,” Theon smiles, gratefully so, and Daenerys tries her best to replicate it. It falls soon as Theon leaves for his men amongst the crowd again. 

If Sansa notices anything odd, she doesn’t mention it until they are in the halls leaving for the library. Daenerys doesn’t speak through the whole journey, pretty face bunched up and sour, and Sansa has a fair idea what the issue is, here. She can’t help but be angered by it. 

Daenerys steps inside first, heading for the nearest shelf. She pulls off a lengthy book of fables, one she’d seen Arya with her nose in more than once as a child, and sits with it at the table.

Sansa follows her in, hands pressed together at her front. 

“You know, I grew up mostly in and around Pentos. I only knew Valyrian. It was my brother who taught me the common tongue using books like these.”

Sansa sits opposite her. Going along with it, she says, “My handmaiden in King’s Landing would speak it when we were alone, although I doubt the words she used to refer to the queen were as beautiful as they sounded.”

Daenerys’ smile is subdued, and thus she knows something is wrong. She can’t pinpoint it. Though, she’s fairly certain it may be because of Theon.

“Aren’t we going to talk about what just happened?”

Daenerys grits her teeth, and looks away to the book cover.

“Tyrion told me that Theon grew up here, is that true?”

“Yes,” Sansa hurried. She felt if she didn’t rush to speak, perhaps it would not come out at all. She hadn’t dealt with anything like this, she didn’t know how to act. “He also saved me from Ramsay and his men. I would be dead if not for him. He’s my friend, Daenerys.”

Pink lips press together. “And that’s all he is to you?”

“He’s important to me, as Ser Jorah is to you. What are you actually asking me?”

Daenerys dares a glance up at her. She fixes her look back to the table, sunken in her furs. She laughs then, ugly and wet in some form that twists Sansa’s gut. 

“Do you feel anything for him?”

The ache in Sansa’s gut pulls, “I thought my feelings were clear enough.”

“We were interrupted before we could talk before.”

“You’re jealous of him,” Sansa concludes, “Why?”

Daenerys’ frown looks wrong on her face. “I have never had feelings for someone the way I do for you, do you understand? Never in my life. I taught myself to love my husband and, yet, I couldn’t. But I- it's a scary thing, to feel things so foreign to yourself.”

What a heartbreaking statement. And how bleak it is that Sansa cannot say the same. She had fallen for a monstrous lion and devious roses who hid behind their thorns. Now, a dragon as gentle as the snow that fell around them. Yet, as ferocious as the flames her children spat.

Joffrey was the death of her innocence before that could become very much at all, and Margaery had all but used her as a means to an end no matter how sweet she had been. But this was different, it was something precious and real. She wasn’t sure what to do with that.

“I want... I want this. Whatever it is. Theon… is just Theon. He couldn’t compare.”

Daenerys heaves a breath. “I was ridiculous, getting jealous like that, watching you with him.”

“You were jealous,” Sansa corrects. Something about it made her grow hot. Nobody had felt such things for Sansa herself. Only for her name. “So what now?”

“Well, I’d rather you didn’t sit so far from me.”

“Oh,” Her voice cracks. Smooth, Sansa. “Alright.”

Sansa stands, pushing the chair from the table, and steps closer toward Daenerys who watches her with wild eyes. She leans down when close enough and presses her lips to Daenerys’.

Those wild eyes flutter with it, and Sansa closes her own the second Daenerys pulls her down to kiss her back. She is fast learning that she finds her lips compulsive. Addicting.

Sansa steps between her legs, cradling a sharp jaw as she pulls back enough that a soft, frustrated sigh leaves Daenerys’ lips.

“I want this,” Sansa admits in the room’s desolation, skirting her thumb along Daenerys’ jawline until she cradled her jaw. “How can I make you believe me?”

“I believe you’re doing a convincing job,” Daenerys quips, in that low, ruthless tone she knew to associate with the beast that coexisted inside her. “Would you come closer?”

Sansa is confused as to what she means until a hand snakes around her waist with the implication of tugging her down, and she lets her. Daenerys tugs at the laces to her cloak as Sansa falls in her lap, pushing it from her shoulders.

It's terrifying, this new, strange thing she still can’t comprehend she’s a participant of. She found she wanted Daenerys, who replicates those feelings for Sansa, and here they were. It really was that simple, she realises, and can’t comprehend how she got to be so lucky after years of no such autonomy.

She reaches for Daenerys’ scarf, tugging at it with little opposition from the silk. When it's out of the way, her skin erupts in goosebumps, and Sansa latches onto her skin where her throat meets her jaw.

She wishes to replicate the way Daenerys had kissed at her throat, and given the receptive gasp that follows, she succeeds.

“I don’t want to stay away from you anymore.”

“Don’t,” Sansa whispers against her skin, pulling back to look at her again. “Please don’t.”

“You want this with me?” Half-lidded, Daenerys’ eyes pierce her. 

“Of course I do.”

Daenerys takes hold of her leather armour to pull Sansa’s mouth to hers again. Sansa straddles her lap, struggling to balance herself, and Daenerys breathes a laugh against her cheek.

A crash outside pulls them apart, and Daenerys licking her lips compels Sansa to follow them. She doesn’t, now aware of how exposed they are, and releases a shaky breath.

Anyone could have found them, especially in such a preoccupied building, and they’d been foolish. But Sansa also didn’t really care. 

“Later,” Daenerys promises, hands skirting her waist before releasing. 

“Later,” Sansa repeats, standing just as the door yawns open. 

It's Grey Worm of all people, and Daenerys’ jaw sets. Sansa stands from her lap, begrudgingly so, as Grey Worm walks inside.

He looks between them, taking in their rustled appearances and the clothing on the floor with an uncharacteristic smile before it's wiped away. 

“Are you busy, My Queen?”

Daenerys rolls her eyes to the beams above them, mouth twitching. 

“You’d think your humour would have improved after all this time. It hasn’t.”

Sansa clears her throat. “Is anything the matter?”

Grey Worm stands straight, as though he had forgotten momentarily himself. “Samwell reports that the blizzard will have stopped by dawn. He believes we’ll be safe to ride for White Harbour at first light. The Dothraki and the Northmen have been told and are ready to ride south at your word.”

Daenerys blinks rather harshly. Sansa can see her chest rise with it, and knows it to be nerves. Or eagerness. Perhaps both.

“Alright, thank you,” She says something in Valyrian that Grey Worm bows his head at, and turns to Sansa. “I need to check in with my men.”

“I should tell Jon,” She nods, feeling a little dizzy with the sudden change. Daenerys catches her wrist, pressing her lips to it.

She leaves hastily with a group of Unsullied, and Sansa heads in the opposite direction to find her brother. 

* * *

Jon is actually easier to find than she’d anticipated.

She finds himself and Tormund inside the Great Hall worrying over a war map that leads to King’s Landing. Or, rather, she finds Jon worrying over the map. Tormund, a drink in one hand, is visibly palming at his armour with the other.

It seems to be working, Jon’s attention on the pawns before him strained.

She makes sure the door drags along the tile as she pushes them fully open, and withholds a laugh as Jon startles to stand straight.

“Tormund, Jon,” She greets in the empty room, “I need to speak with you.”

“Lady Stark,” Tormund acknowledges her with a hearty shout and she looks his way in bemusement. He and Jon could not be more dissimilar and yet they work. It was sweet. 

“What’s the matter?” Jon queries, his expression slipping into a grimace she’s sad to recognise as his most common expression. This war and those knives in his chest had done that to her big brother. She hated it. 

“Sam thinks the Dothraki and both your forces are okay to march tomorrow morning. I wanted to let you know as soon as I could.”

“Aye, thank you,” Jon blows out a breath, looking between Sansa and Tormund. “Do you think your men will be ready?”

“They’ve been waiting for it for a while, they’ll be looking forward to it.”

Sansa exhales, “And what of the Northmen?”

“They’re still not keen on travelling with the Dothraki or the Free Folk. But they’ll be ready by first light.”

“They’re going to have to get the fuck over themselves then,” Sansa rolls her eyes, stepping close to peer over the map. Their forces surround the walls, a select few inside. The Hound, Arya and Daenerys. Arya and the Hound smuggled in by Davos, Daenerys on the back of Drogon.

“They better,” Tormund snorts, “Fighting with the Dothraki against those golden cunts is something I’m looking forward to.”

“I know that,” Jon shakes his head in silent laughter. He gestures to the map and Sansa. “We’ll be performing a siege but we’ll be far enough her army and her scorpions can’t touch us. Until Daenerys gives the signal or Arya does. Don’t worry.”

“The signal?”

“She’ll burn down the fleet and the scorpions and then the Iron Gate. Or Arya will ring the bells. Both are a signal regardless of which is first. The remaining Unsullied will sneak over the Mud Gate when we do. It's going to work, Sansa.”

“I know it will,” She says, wishing for it to be true. She reaches across the lion’s den to grasp Jon’s hand. “Be safe on your march and in battle, alright? I can’t lose another sibling.”

“You won’t,” He insists. “I don’t remember tens of thousands of men or three dragons fighting with me for this place and we still won.”

“Because of your sister,” Tormund raises a brow, smiling wide. “We’ll be fine, Lady Stark.”

Sansa smiles back, her chest heavy. “Still. Cersei is a monster. You don’t know what kind of evil she’s capable of.”

“And she’s going against someone who convinced hundred-thousand warlords to follow her.”

Sansa can’t hide her pride at that nor the growth of her grin. It's something Jon dips his head to hide his smile at. 

“Rest, little sister. We all have a lot of travelling tomorrow. You’re going to need it.”

* * *

That final night in Winterfell is a strange kind of bittersweet on her tongue.

With Jon, the Dothraki and each Northern force having gone that morning, it feels stripped clean of everything she knows. It's odd, she thinks as she watches Arya eat her pie with her bare, dirtied hands in mild disgust. She is her only blood here except for Bran. The only person left from her childhood. She should feel alone.

She looks away, her eyes skirting over the Unsullied men littering the tables to Theon and Sam conversing in the corner, the Targaryen front advisors and finally to the woman beside her.

Daenerys is in simple, black furs, like that of the northern houses, and something in her chest dances. She lights up when she notices Sansa watching her, smile bright and beautifully open.

“Nervous,” She teases, gulping ale with slight discomfort. 

“A little,” Sansa takes a mouthful of her own. “A lot, actually.”

“Me too. I’ve been preparing for tomorrow for years, and yet I’m terrified.”

“I’m worried about you,” She admits, looking away to the ground between them. “He almost took down Viserion and Rhaegal. What if he finds your heart instead?”

“He will not,” She says with such certainty that Sansa must look up and meet earnest eyes. Daenerys twists in her chair to take her hand in hers.

Sansa’s eyes flit to the crowd in front of them, to Tyrion who watches them behind Varys with furrowed brows. “How do you know?”

“Because I can’t think otherwise,” Daenerys doesn’t blink, thumbing her cheek. “I’m going to kill that bastard and then I will find Cersei too. And you’re going to help me reform the city after. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” Sansa exhales, disregarding the rest of the Hall altogether. She leans into the warmth at her cheek, pressing her mouth to it in a replica of Daenerys’ on her wrist earlier in the day. “Yes, I know.”

“Good,” Daenerys smiles, nostrils flaring in an attempt at controlling her breathing. “This isn’t going to be easy, I always knew that. But we have each other, now. We’re going to do this.”

* * *

Sansa had not missed travelling by carriage.

The last time had been alongside Baelish to Moat Cailin and the time before down to King’s Landing. She hated it now just as much as she had then.

She stretches out, grateful for the lack of grace for once, rolling her neck. She’s antsy with it after hours of nothing, restless.

“Bored?”

She looks up to find Daenerys peering over her book opposite her, knowing her to be smirking. 

Sansa makes to look out of the blurry window. “Incredibly.”

Daenerys stretches out her own legs, lowering her book to the couch she resides on. “I could make you less bored.”

Sansa huffs a laugh, heart thumping at the mere suggestion. She toys with her hands. “I hate travelling in these things.”

“Me too,” Daenerys clambers over to Sansa’s couch, grabbing for the bottle of ale that resided on a table nearby. She takes a sip from it, offering it to Sansa after. “I feel confined in these ridiculous boxes. I wish I was flying, or even riding.”

“I suppose it's good we’re about halfway there,” Sansa swallows a mouthful of the liquid, face twisting with it. “Or, I’d assume so. If I could see out of these things I could tell you.”

“I don’t mind it so much with you here,” Daenerys takes the bottle wordlessly, taking her own gulp. “On the way to Winterfell, I shared a carriage with Varys. This is a significant improvement.”

Sansa snorts, “I bet.”

“I think I would’ve thought you crazy if you’d told me this was how I’d be leaving Winterfell.”

“Well, it's a good thing you made a move and I got out of my own head, isn’t it?”

“It is,” Daenerys smiles, forgoing the bottle altogether for Sansa. “Can I kiss you?”

Sansa’s stomach pulls. She settles the bottle elsewhere. “Yes.”

Daenerys hums, swinging a leg over her lap. “How many hours are left before we arrive, do you think?”

“Um,” Her hands come to Daenerys’ waist. Daenerys takes one in hers and encourages Sansa to touch her hair, loose for once. Delicate fingers twirl around the chain around Sansa’s neck. “Around twelve or.. something.”

“Good,” Daenerys says, hands tugging apart Sansa’s furs as she presses her mouth to Sansa’s exposed throat. 

She closes her eyes to it and lays her head back, happy to just feel, her hands stroking through Daenerys’ hair. Daenerys hums, lazy and nonchalant, kissing up her throat. She sucks at the bob of it and has Sansa seeing stars behind her lids.

Sansa opens her eyes to purple ones staring back, half-lidded and focused.

When she spoke, her voice was husky, deep as her mouth hovered over Sansa’s again. 

“Sansa,” She smiles, a little breathless, brushing her lips over Sansa’s. Like she couldn’t resist, just for a second. 

“Yes?” She finds her own high and airy, surprising herself.

“You’re gorgeous, do you know that?” Daenerys’ fingers toy at the leather bodice on her chest. “Can I touch-”

“Please,” Sansa keens, hand tightening in her hair to kiss her again. 

Daenerys moans into her mouth at that. Her hands hike up Sansa’s undershirt. She moves her hand to Sansa’s breast, rolling a hardened nipple between her fingers.

Sansa jolts with a shiver, ripping her mouth away to gasp. Daenerys licks into her open mouth with glee, opening her hand wide over her breast. 

Sansa tugs at her hair again, powerless to do much else, and Daenerys squirms in her lap.

She felt as though she may explode, maybe she was already on fire, and she willed it to spread through her.

* * *

When the carriage finally stops, it's some time after Daenerys has fallen asleep against her.

It's quiet enough she can hear the crowd surrounding, and she quickly nudges her awake.

Daenerys sits up, her blinks slow and wide. It's an adorable sight, Sansa thinks, and wants to kiss her cheek. She does, just to watch a blush develop across Daenerys’ face, and sits back with her hands clasped.

“Why have we stopped?”

“It doesn’t seem an emergency,” She glances out of the window. It's enough to make out a bunch of shadows. “I think we’ve arrived.”

Daenerys hums with a roll of her neck. She fumbles for her coats, white fur and red-lined. “It’ll be fine.”

“I know.”

When they both clamber out, it's with their advisors already standing about the crowd of common folk. Fishermen and townspeople mostly, she realises, bordered by Unsullied. 

“I overslept,” Daenerys whispers to Jorah, who presses his lips together to appear neutral still. She regards the small crowd of people with a wave, a confident smile and straight back. Sansa can tell she’s nervous just as she is, the flitter of her gaze an obvious tell. 

“Hello,” Sansa greets as well, nodding her head before rushing to get to Brienne. The guard regards her with a twitch of her mouth despite looking forward to Jorah and Daenerys. 

“Her Grace was asleep?”

“She grew tired reading,” Sansa says as the pier comes into view, a further crowd with it. “I suppose, with the coming journey, every bit of rest helps.”

That had not been the truth. They’d kissed and kissed some more with their hands exploring each other’s bodies until Daenerys had been nothing but a shuddering mess. She’d touched herself, Sansa too frightened to do so, and instead finished in Sansa’s lap.

It’d been such a sight she’d nearly come herself but hadn’t dared try anything.

She had waited until Daenerys slept to do so.

“I see,” Brienne continued to watch Daenerys as she shook hands among the fishermen and traders ahead. “She has a lot ahead of her. We all do.”

“I know,” Sansa breathes out. Daenerys looks back to her with a bright smile, and she ignores the dread in her stomach.

* * *

It doesn’t take more than a week of sailing before Tyrion approaches her regarding Daenerys.

The scout announces they’re approaching Gulltown in which they’re expected to upgrade Unsullied weaponry - a request Sansa had made via raven to Robin before they set sail - when Tyrion finds her above deck.

She watches the waves at the rear of the ship as they approach the docks.

She found being below deck, in the cabins, stifling. The unpredictability of the sea view and the fresh air was a relief from the stuffy conditions below. The breeze blew through her loose, red hair. She found it more relaxing to be away from the constant strategising or panicking of everyone else on the ship.

“Lady Sansa,” is how he greets her, lacking a guard or companion at his side. That is the first thing to have Sansa on edge. A lack of witnesses to whatever conversation they’re about to have is suspicious, and something Tyrion would not normally do. Not in King’s Landing.

“My Lord,” She doesn’t look away from the still water below.

“I was hoping we could talk.”

She’s half-tempted to sigh. Instead, she inclines her head toward the dragons who dance in circles above. “We are already, aren’t we?”

“How are you feeling? I hear you’re not a fan of sea journeys.”

“I’m fine,” She says, finally looking back at him. His gaze wavers. “But you’re not here to make small talk, are you?”

“I wanted to... the night before we sailed, you and Daenerys seem to be getting on well.”

Her pulse jumps at that. “And why is that important? We’re allies now. Isn’t that what you wanted?”

“I recall you not being her biggest supporter when we arrived at Winterfell.”

“Which was months ago,” She scoffs. “I changed my mind as did the people. They’ll willingly accept her as queen if it means Cersei is gone.”

“You’re right on that front. The common people despise my sister.”

She scoffs. “The whole country does.”

“That is true,” Tyrion stands beside her before the rail.” Your belief in our Queen is admirable. I must say that I wasn’t expecting it.”

“She’ll be a good queen,” She finds herself reflecting Jon’s words when he was convincing herself to Daenerys’ cause. What a stubborn fool she had been.

“I hope so,” Tyrion nods, “I want her to do well. She’ll do a better job than my sister, that I’m certain.”

Sansa, quickly growing tired, purses her lips. “What are you here to ask me, Tyrion? You don’t trust her? Is that it?”

“I worry for her,” He cuts in, all neutrality wiped from his face. “I worry about her state of mind. All this talk of killing Cersei’s men and Euron, of burning Cersei and-”

“So that’s what this is about,” She can’t help the edge to her voice she’s sure Tyrion picks upon. “You don’t think she’s mad. You just don’t want her to kill your sister, do you?”

“I think that enough blood has been spilt in my lifetime. There must be other options. Cersei is with child, Sansa. I don’t want harm to come to them.”

“Talisa was too before a knife struck her stomach in the name of your house.”

“I always thought that what happened to your family was heinous and you know it,” He insists, “I merely… she may listen to you more than she does myself. Cersei doesn’t have to die.”

“Yes she does,” Sansa tilts her chin, “That is the only way this can end.”

“She won’t make it easy for Daenerys to get to her. The people will be at risk, I hope you know that.”

“It's a good job she’s flying to the Red Keep to rip her head off then, isn’t it?”

Tyrion is visibly taken aback, and although he tries to mask it, his fate is sealed then and there.

“Her reign is over, that I agree, but that doesn’t mean her life should be. Her child’s life doesn’t have to end before it can begin.”

“As far as I remember, she has more of a say in this than you. You’re her Hand. She’s your _Queen_. You’d do well to remember that the next time you want to discuss treason. I think it's best that you left, Lord Tyrion.”

Gripping the rail, Sansa looks back to the sky to signal the end of the conversation. She would have to tell Daenerys about this as soon as she could to stop the seeds being sown.

She watches Viserion and Rhaegal char a fish they’d caught, tearing it in half to share, and when she looks away, Tyrion has disappeared. Good. She releases a deep breath and steps back to go below deck.

It's as she does that the ship halts.

The people among the docks wave as a boat, several of many, is lowered from the ship to a pier. Unsullied soldiers surround Davos and Jorah as they step off to speak to a man in Arryn robes.

She hears Jorah’s laugh carry over the sea. It makes her smile as she looks further up the docks to wherein rows of grain wagons reside. Robin must have gotten her request after all. 

“It was smart of you to write to him.”

She doesn’t need to turn to know Daenerys is behind her. She does anyway and finds her standing back against the mast with her hands clasped, Missandei at her side.

“Yes, it was,” She agrees to a smirk of Daenerys’ and can’t help a smile herself. She makes her way back to the slab of timber that she supposes is a bench, and Daenerys settles beside her.

“What did he want?” She asks, laying a hand atop Sansa’s.

“He still thinks Cersei can be saved,” She whispers, pressing back against her hand. “I think he thinks I can persuade you to hear him out. He’s going to try and get to her before you regardless.”

“And I’m the one they’re trying to spin as mad,” Daenerys scoffs, and at Sansa’s surprise, she raises a brow. “You think I don’t have people of my own watching them? I trust Varys little, and Tyrion even less. Their conversation has quickly shifted from whether I am worthy to whether I am as mad as my father. As though he didn’t murder his own.”

Sansa doesn’t know how to respond to that. Such ferocity directed at the two of them rouses something inside her, despite the circumstances. 

“I think his sanity died with his father,” She admits, casting another look beyond Missandei. 

Daenerys’ gaze dips for a moment before she looks away to her advisors again.

“I don’t think I can trust him with anything anymore.”

“He’s going to try his best to defy you and get to her, you do know that?"

“Well, I’m not going to stop him,” Daenerys smirks, fingertips stroking Sansa’s knuckles. “Jorah should have gotten that pin a long time ago, anyway.”

Sansa smiles, catching a glimpse of him engaging with Robin’s men and fishermen alike. “He’ll be a better choice, for all of us.”

“I know,” Daenerys shares her smile, “Thank you for telling me.”

“Of course,” Sansa lay a supportive hand over Daenerys. “You don’t need him.”

“We don’t,” Missandei corrects, speaking for the first time, smiling earnestly between the two of them. 

“No, we don’t,” Sansa agrees and alters to look a ship over to where Arya and Brienne spar. She laughs despite herself when Brienne knocks her over, and finds Missandei and Daenerys doing the same.

* * *

Sansa’s office below deck is a hazardous one, made up of desks pushing together littered with ink at the end of her cabin. Still, it's sufficient enough that she may keep busy enough to entertain herself throughout the sail. 

After writing to Jon about Tyrion, she’s left with little to do but go over scrolls she’s already been sent. Still, it at least feels like she’s doing something of importance as opposed to watching the water all day.

A knock interrupts her thoughts, and when she answers, she’s surprised to find Daenerys there with Dothraki at her side.

“May I come in, Lady Sansa?” She asks, perfectly regal and composed despite the late hour, and Sansa nods. Can’t quite speak, not when she looks like she does, hair-free and smallclothes concealing just enough below her furs.

She dismisses the single Khal in the hallway and makes her way inside the cabin.

“I wanted to discuss-”

She’s cut off when Sansa tugs on her furs, mouth finding hers. Her hands come to Sansa’s waist as she laughs against Sansa’s lips. 

“ _Well_ , hello,” She smiles against Sansa’s mouth, thumbing Sansa’s hips through her undergarments. “I came because I need to talk to you.”

“Alright,” Sansa hums, “Talk.”

Daenerys laughs softly to herself, nudging up on her tiptoes despite her statement to kiss her again. And again. And again.

Sansa begins to be lulled in by it, lost in her, when Daenerys steps back with hazy eyes.

“Talking, remember?” She reprimands them both and exhales. “Varys came to my chambers just now.”

“He did?” Sansa can’t hide her surprise as she preoccupies herself with finding and pouring them wine supplied earlier by Robin. 

“He told me the same thing you did. That Tyrion was planning on committing treason to save his family.”

“I’m sorry, Varys told you this? _Varys_?”

“I was shocked too, believe me. He.. he actually suggested that I look elsewhere for a Hand. That Tyrion had a knack for destroying the lives of who he helped rule.”

“Huh,” Sansa offers the goblet to Daenerys who swiftly takes it. “I thought they were good friends?”

“Varys is a man of the realm, is he not? I don’t doubt he knows the risk it imposes for Tyrion once he’d told me what I already knew thanks to you.”

Sansa frowns, taking the wine back. “I still can’t believe Tyrion would just do that. He truly meant it all.”

“You yourself told me how his biggest weakness was his love for his family,” Daenerys tilts her head up, taking Sansa’s free hand and leading her to the edge of Sansa’s bed. “You were right all along.”

“I wish I wasn’t,” She chews on her cheek, laying the goblet on the bedside table. She sat back against the headboard, arms open.

Daenerys crawls into them, her hum soft as she lay her head on Sansa’s shoulder. “I don’t know what to do with him. Fire him, yes. But he remains an issue thereafter. What if he decides he wants revenge when I take her head?”

Sansa suppresses a shiver at the thought. Such things, no matter how violent, had been a long timing coming for Cersei. She refused to feel bad about looking forward to it.

“Have you asked Jorah what he thinks?”

It's a loaded question. Daenerys shakes her head.

“I wanted to come to you first,” She admits with pink cheeks, pressing a kiss to her collar. 

“What if you find Jaime in King’s Landing?”

“I’m not sure,” She sighs, tilting her head to press more, lazy kisses along Sansa’s shoulder. “I’ll leave to find Jorah soon.”

“Soon,” Sansa agrees, dipping to catch Daenerys’ lips. Daenerys smiles into it and pulls her closer with a hand at her nape.

* * *

Sansa jolts awake.

She’s not sure why at first. Everything in her cabin is intact. The bed is still warm, meaning Daenerys would have left fairly recently. She’d mentioned wanting to fly the rest of the way before Sansa had fallen asleep but she hadn’t taken much note at the time.

Now, it's a fast cause for worry.

She dresses quickly, tying her hair back in a Tully braid, and heads for the top deck alone. Dragonstone’s shores make up the imminent horizon, another hour away at most.

She finds a troubled Missandei standing with Arya and Brienne as they look to something in the distance. Arya rushes forward for Sansa when she spots her, pulling her into a hug.

“What happened?”

“The Iron Fleet was planning on ambushing us when we arrived. They shot down the scout ship. And I only know because I could hear the dragons crying.”

Her blood runs cold. “Where are they? Where is the Queen?”

Arya nods toward the sky, “Somewhere up there. I think she’s going to ambush him from the clouds or something.”

“She did so before in Meereen,” Missandei’s voice shakes with her body. “I made them lower the anchor. We can’t go any further or he’ll kill us all.”

“That was smart,” Sansa reassures her, stepping closer. “Where is Grey Worm?”

“With his men at the head of the ship, My Lady,” Brienne says, eyes on the fleet. “They’re doing the best they can with arrows.”

She suspects that isn’t much when against scorpion bolts and insane pirates. She doesn’t voice that opinion.

Arya takes her hand as Drogon’s cry fills the air, a shrill, terrifying thing, and breaches the clouds.

Gliding through the clouds in the line of the sun, Drogon unleashes flames at the back half of the fleet. She inhales at the far off sight of Daenerys on his back, a vision of silver bells and red armour that glints in the flames the beast spits.

She circles around again, headed for the left flank of ships as Drogon’s brothers join him. Together, they burn through half of the ships before Sansa notices them turning around.

It worked, she thinks every so naively, until the moment a bolt flies clean through Rhaegal’s wing. He wails with it as he falls, sporadically enough she’s unsure of if he reached the island or not. 

When she looks back to the fleet they are headed away from the island, and a visceral hatred makes her shake. 

Theon would find him in King’s Landing. He had to. And Euron would die for this and more.

The entire journey from the ship to the island’s shore passes by her in a haze. Varys of all people helps her off the path to where Drogon and Viserion circle. She knows Rhaegal will be there, no matter his fate, and oddly feels herself becoming nauseous. 

What she finds is worse than she could imagine.

She spots Rhaegal’s green wingspan first, bloodied beyond recognition. Daenerys is tending to the open wound alone, desperately pressing her white furs against it. They drip red.

She can hear her crying over the wind so high up on the cliffs, the incomprehensible murmurs she says to him in anguish. 

Varys dismisses himself with little more than a whisper, and she doesn’t have the time nor energy to react to that as she drags herself toward the dragon and his mother.

Daenerys looks up at her arrival, face twisted and overcome with horror, and Sansa doesn’t know what to say. Isn’t sure she can say anything.

“Sansa,” She gasps, wetly, and reaches out a shaking, bloodied hand. “We need to... He can live. He just needs.. He needs help. Your brother’s friend, the one. The one training to be a maester. He can help. Can’t he?”

“Sam?” Sansa’s own voice shakes, and she reaches down to lay a hand on Daenerys’ shoulder. It trembles. “Are you alright just a moment if I get him?”

Daenerys nods though she doesn’t look away from the wound as she continues to press her furs to it. 

Samwell, of course, hurries to the cliffs with her. 

He stills at the sight of the dragon so close, terror on his face, and Sansa glares up at him. Pushes him forward toward where Daenerys sits, so tiny and distraught, and Rhaegal hisses at him.

“It's alright,” Sansa finds herself saying, “Sam wants to help you. He won’t hurt you.”

Sam, albeit hesitant, gets to work, and Sansa can finally release a breath.

Daenerys stands back, coated in his blood, and stumbles into Sansa. 

To see her so void of anything but fear is incredibly foreign to Sansa. She’s only ever seen this woman embody grace and confidence in all the time she has known her. Whether she was suspecting treason or discussing her enemies, she has kept a strong front.

It was odd to witness it crumble in front of her.

She holds Daenerys as she shakes, her face and hot tears pressed into her neck, and neither move until Sam gives the news that Rhaegal will recover. 

With the confirmation that he’ll live, Daenerys leaves Sansa’s arms for her son. 

Shaking as she does so, her face wracken with tears, she kneels at his side. Rhaegal gives a meek growl, curving himself protectively around her despite his wound, and Sansa meets Sam’s face with the same level of grief he exhibits. 

How she wishes, at that moment, to have been able to do the same with her own family. It does not take a genius to realise Sam feels the same about his father, no matter their history.

Still, she steps forward to lay a hand on Daenerys’ shoulder. It doesn’t take long for Daenerys to take it in her hold.

* * *

Finding time alone with Daenerys in the week or so after they dock proves incredibly difficult.

Both find themself busier than Sansa had naively assumed they would be. Daenerys is wrapped up in preparing for their march on King’s Landing as Sansa awaits news on Jon and his forces, and she finds their time spent together not involving the war to be scarce.

They catch each other between meetings and late into the night in which they’re too exhausted to do much more than speak. Sleeping aside another doesn’t wrack her nerves as much as it may have once. She finds comfort in being wrapped up in Daenerys’ warmth and waking up to it. Even if it always ends in so many hours apart.

It's frustrating, to say the least. She’s never had anything like this, no such relationships that make her feel as full of love as she is, and yet. Yet. They’re apart more than when Daenerys had first arrived at Winterfell and Sansa had hidden herself away like a child.

“How long until Jon hopes to arrive at Rosby?”

Sansa looks up from the parchment in her hands to her sister, blinking away the heavy fatigue of the evening. The parchment had been their most recent and last from Jon, sent from the Eyrie a couple days ago.

“I’m assuming a day or more,” She rubs at her eyes with the back of her hand, “We should get word in a few days at most, don’t worry. Then you’re free to ride alongside her to storm the city. Tick some Lannisters off your list.”

“It's not me I’m worried about,” Arya frowns, yanking the parchment from her grip. Sansa scarcely keeps hold of it. Perhaps she’s more tired than she thought.

“If I don’t fret over my duties, I’ll fret over her,” Sansa’s eyes sting. “I don’t want her to go. I don’t want any of you to.”

“I know,” Arya falls onto a seat at the table, arms wrapped around the back of it. “It's alright if you just let yourself feel, you know. Burying yourself in those papers isn’t going to help anyone.”

“I can’t just do nothing,” Sansa finds her gaze centring on the candle wax that dripped down it's wick behind Arya, the cunning snarl of the flame that followed it. “Littlefinger once told me I was a bystander to our family’s tragedies. I don’t want to watch all of you fight without knowing I’m doing my part.”

“You’re already doing enough.”

Sansa can’t help her laughter, something crazed born of fatigue and disbelief. “How?”

“You won her a battle and several allies. You’ve been as much a leader as Jon in Winterfell. You defeated Baelish,” Arya tilts her head, and takes her sister’s hand. “You’re not a bystander. You’re a fucking leader, Sansa. And a pretty good one at that.”

“It doesn’t change the fact that I’m not… I’m not like you or Daenerys,” She gestures to the sword at Arya’s hip. “I don’t even know how to use that.”

“Doesn’t mean you’re not doing your part,” Arya sighs, “I’ll teach you after. Whenever I next see you. Promise.”

The mention of an after makes it feel much more real for Sansa, and thus, the stakes they face much more terrifying. Then, she realises what Arya is proposing, and frowns.

“What do you mean whenever you next see me?”

Arya shrugs although her eyes soften. “You’re staying with her, aren’t you? Not coming back north with us when it's done.”

She fumbles, “I haven’t decided.”

“Yes, you have,” Arya is just as quick, “You’re good at advising her, better at defending her, and I see the way you are together. Gods, a fool could see it. You want to stay with her.”

“She offered me a position beside her when she wins. She wants my help.”

“Aye, I’m sure it's your help she wants,” Arya snorts, and Sansa reddens. 

She reddens. “Shut up.”

“Well, you’re going to accept, aren’t you?”

“I can’t stay in Winterfell. But if I can help make life a little less shit for the north and the realm after everything the Lannisters have done, then I’ll stay with her.”

Arya raises a brow. “And that’s the only reason? The realm?”

“No.”

Arya hides her smile behind a glove she rests on her chin. “You’re happy with her. I’d imagine, a little something like you thought you once felt for Joffrey.”

“She’s as far from him as anything.”

“I didn’t mean it like that,” Arya rolls her eyes. “You seem to bring out something human in her, and she does you. It's the kind of thing you daydreamed about, right? It’s nice.”

Sansa isn’t sure how to respond to that so she doesn’t acknowledge it beyond the flush of her cheeks. She stands swiftly with a clear of her throat. “It's late.”

“It is,” Arya stands too, albeit slower, and toys with the hilt of Needle. “Stop obsessing over these parchments and rest. Maybe we’ll get word tomorrow.”

“I hope so,” Sansa nods, and walks her to the door. Arya pauses, eyes skittish, before she wraps Sansa in a quick hug. 

“I understand, and I know Bran and Jon will too. You’ll be good for the country, the two of you.”

That stays with Sansa even hours later, several into her lying awake in her bed. It stays with her in her dreams, too, with herself in the throne room and Daenerys by her side. 

She rather likes the image.

* * *

Tyrion is banished that following morning.

Daenerys had had him imprisoned only after Viserion’s recovery had been confirmed by Samwell the day they arrived. Thus, of course, they had all been too busy to deal with him. 

Still, she’d been more generous than most. Allowed him to be fed, at least.

It happens like so.

Sansa arrives for her early meeting in the throne room as she has for over a week now, one that has usually discussed any new ravens and urgent news before actual council meetings take place in the map room.

It's there that she finds Tyrion, chained and angry, and falters at the doors.

Grey Worm steps forth to guide her inside and to where the throne sits at the head of the hall, his grip on her light. But firm. He nods as he heads back to stand with a Khal between Daenerys and Tyrion.

“Sansa,” Daenerys speaks, echoing in the hall, her voice perfectly empty. “You came to me as we sailed for Dragonstone to warn me about Lord Tyrion, did you not?”

Sansa chews her cheek. “I did, Your Grace.”

“And Lord Varys, you warned me of his treason too, didn’t you?”

Varys stands straight as Tyrion looks back at him. Clearly, that is a surprise to him. For such a clever man, he seems to have made a few, grave mistakes. Entrusting Sansa and Varys to join him were his greatest.

“Yes, Your Grace. As soon as I could.”

“And I thank you both for that,” Daenerys raises her chin, “Explain to me, Lady Stark, what acts did Tyrion ask of you?”

Sansa fumbles, unsure of which pair of eyes staring at her to meet. She settles on Missandei, who smiles warmly at her. “He wished for me to betray you and set him free to save Cersei Lannister from her imminent execution, Your Grace.”

“Varys, did he ask something similar to you?”

“He asked me of that and the poisons in my stock just a day ago, My Queen. Thus, I took the most logical path and believed him to be planning to kill you if necessary and save Cersei Lannister after.”

Daenerys’ lip twitches at that, a beginning of a snarl, and Sansa has to look away as her stomach churns. 

“Lord Tyrion. What do you have to say for yourself?”

Tyrion stills, and to Sansa’s horror, turns his gaze to herself.

“I believe you will be a good queen, that I do stand by. But my siblings… I cannot step aside and allow you to murder them in cold blood. Cersei is with child and my brother is a good man. I can’t let you.”

Daenerys’ face sours, “So you decided to have me killed.”

Tyrion straightens. “If I could not find another way, yes.”

This time, Daenerys does snarl, and thus the passive mask slips completely. Her breath halts at the sight. It shouldn’t, but it does. “I should have you burned alive.”

“I conspired against you, and I failed. I do not deny that I am deserving of such a fate.”

Daenerys sits back, knuckles white as she grips the chair. 

“Jorah,” She calls upon him for the first time, “What would you have me do with him?”

Jorah straightens. “Well, he won’t last long if he leaves. Every man is after him, soldier or not, and he is the most recognisable man in all of the kingdoms.”

Sansa nods her head. “I recommend you free him of his duties. Allow him the choice to leave for his family. Let him die trying. He won’t make it into the city.”

“Very well,” Daenerys settles Tyrion with a look. “Grey Worm, I ask you to take your best men and sail him to land and leave him there. See that you strip him of all possessions and that pin before you do.”

Grey Worm nods again and tugs Tyrion out of the room. 

With his disappearance, Daenerys deflates, and much of the people in the hall disperse.

“That was wise of you,” Sansa says, chancing a squeeze of her shoulder. 

“And of you and Jorah,” Daenerys turns and catches her hand, pressing her lips to the back of it. “We’ve been missing a lot of each other, haven’t we?”

“Who knew wars were so time-consuming?”

Daenerys blinks, and with it, a smile grows and graces her face. It's rather odd, given what just occurred, but a welcome sight. One that does nothing but stir something light in Sansa’s chest.

“I have plenty of meetings today,” Daenerys will not let up her hand, “Will you attend? I would rather you were there to keep me company as Varys recounts everything his every bird has found.”

“Of course,” Sansa smiles as Daenerys stands and tugs her by the hand. She leans in, breath hot on Sansa’s ear. 

“Varys already let slip that he thinks we’ll likely leave for King’s Landing tomorrow. I wanted you to know that before the rest.”

“You received word from Jon?”

Daenerys casts a glance behind Sansa at those who lingered. “They arrived in Rosby last night. I can’t waste any time so I’ll be leaving to join him as soon as I can. But I wanted you to know before anyone else.”

“Thank you,” Sansa says in a rush, dazed by the news, and can’t help it when she grips Daenerys’ wrist. “Please come back.”

“I will,” Daenerys lay her forehead on Sansa’s, pressing a kiss high on her cheek.

Sansa exhales shakily, catching her in a quick kiss Daenerys eagerly responds to. 

“Good.”

Daenerys hums against her mouth, opening her own to allow Sansa in. 

She does with ease, the hall and the meetings and the war forgotten for a single, fleeting moment, and Sansa sighs into it. 

“You realise this is most likely not much of a secret anymore,” Daenerys whispers between kisses. Sansa chances a look behind her, and only the guards at the doors remain.

“It was going to happen sometime,” Sansa argues, digging her nails into chainmail to fight the urge to kiss her again. “If I’m to stay and counsel you, they’ll have known somehow. Rather now than after you’re crowned.”

Daenerys hums, stroking a path along her scaled dress. “I don’t want you to counsel me.”

That confuses Sansa. “You don’t?”

“No,” Daenerys finds her hip, “I want you to be with me. Do you understand?”

“In every way?”

She could not comprehend what she was hearing. Whatever she meant was something big, something that made Sansa want her right this minute.

“Every way,” Daenerys nods with a twitch of her lips, “You were amazing for the north, your siblings tell me. We could do so much together.”

“I want that,” Sansa agrees, feeling a little mad and more than a little infatuated, and laughs into the new kiss Daenerys pulls her into. 

Her eyes are aflame, wild as she follows Sansa’s mouth when she breaks away. Just that sight makes Sansa want to throw all responsibilities for her. It aches to step away.

“You have meetings, remember?”

Daenerys pouts, reluctantly releasing her armour. 

“You’ll come to my chambers after?”

Sansa nods, something like nerves and excitement curling in her core, “Is that a demand?”

“A request,” Daenerys frowns. “It is always your choice with me.”

“I know,” Sansa swallows, meets her eyes with clarity. “I want it. To be with you.”

Daenerys replicates her earlier smile, a golden, beautiful thing. “Come and find me tonight when everything is done.”

* * *

The problem, Sansa soon realises, is just how draining said meetings are.

Nothing of importance save for Jon’s letter and the layout of King’s Landing are discussed for hours and thus plans that have already been gone through several times are reiterated.

The battle plans are all but final. Daenerys is to attack the fleet from the clouds. Then she was to attack the scorpions as Arya snuck inside the walls to open the gates for the armies. They would overwhelm Cersei’s men and her sellswords. Thus, Daenerys would fly for the red keep and capture Cersei. 

Though, given the sourness on Arya’s face at the mention of imprisoning her, Sansa wasn’t sure that may go exactly as planned.

She finds several meetings in that Daenerys poses a problem, too.

Not her planning, not at all, but rather her actions outside of it.

At one point, she allows her advisors to quabble amongst themselves over the map as she leans back against the column and exposes her throat. She must crave the ocean air, Sansa theories, and can’t stop watching her anyway.

At another, it's her furs being tugged off in a huff, leaving her in a dress that dips low enough on her torso that Sansa is pressing her thighs together behind the map table. Daenerys knows, she must, as she meets Sansa’s gaze with a tug of her lips.

Only when they briefly discuss the dragons does Daenerys sober up and demand Rhaegal and Viserion both stay to rest on the island, and Sam enthusiastically backs her up on that.

Tedious meeting after meeting continues after that, and Sansa can scarcely pay attention. 

She catches Jorah’s eye, who furrows his brows in sympathy, and smiles. It seems her and Daenerys are not the only ones bored with finalised plans being drawn up.

Arya clears her throat, “How long until Grey Worm gets back?”

Daenerys hums, hands clasped at her front as she steps toward the map again. “Before the day is up, I’m sure. Why?”

“I’ve heard these plans a million times,” Arya shrugs, “Making conversation.”

Daenerys smirks across at her, eyes bright. “Perhaps abandoning today’s meetings would be wise. We all know what’s to happen tomorrow and what our role is. Unless somebody has a point they wish to discuss?”

There are dismissive grunts among the counsel, even Brienne pulls a face, and Daenerys releases an amused breath.

“Then you are all excused.”

* * *

 _Daenerys can do this_ , she reminds herself as she watches a single Greyjoy ship sail by from the midpoint of the stairs to Dragonstone.

Missandei and Brienne stand with her, Missandei in case they stop by to greet them and Brienne to protect them both. It's pointless, she knows Theon better than anyone, but Brienne had insisted. And she still feels safer with her nearby, even now.

Her nerves overpower her now as she overlooks the fleet the ship passes through. Unsullied men throughout the beach march for the ships, filling them with fish and with arrows. With barrels of gas and with their spears. 

It terrifies her, she feels separate to the ongoing war and those operating in it, Daenerys most of all. She and Arya are the most at risk in their plan, and she’s entirely powerless to protect either her lover or her sister. It pains her greatly, knowing both are going to be face to face with their biggest enemies. 

Arya plans to kill Cersei herself. She isn’t stupid and she knows that. Daenerys will not stop before she has decimated Euron and his men and has Cersei on her knees. And Jon will face the brunt of Cersei’s army. 

Yet she cannot do anything but wait and hope that they succeed.

“Did she ever tell you about how she reclaimed Meereen?”

Sansa blinks, finding Missandei watching the men below, too. She knows Grey Worm is among them. Missandei must be feeling the same, that inevitable fear.

“Only that she won.”

Missandei nods, knuckles white on the stone wall. “The city was a mess, the masters ordered her people to be killed. She had the throats of two-slit, burned ships and eliminated the cult that tried to destroy Meereen from within. She’s dealt with worse than Cersei.”

“I take it they didn’t have scorpions,” Sansa sighs. “I just wish I could go. I wish I could do something. She could be dead in two days and I wouldn’t know, not for days.”

“She’ll come back to you,” Missandei’s smile is kind, and her gaze kinder. “They both will. I know it because they have done before. I can’t think otherwise.”

“I hope they do,” Sansa agrees and watches a boat deploy from the Greyjoy ship that she’s sure Theon is on.

* * *

Nighttime on Dragonstone is something mystical.

Much like Winterfell, it is a place that sits on magic. An ancient kind of magic she can’t comprehend other than it's existence. She watches the waves from her open windowsill in quiet serenity, pondering that fact. 

A single candle sits on it in front of her, and she’s reminded briefly of the broken tower. That friend in the North, how she had sealed her death sentence for Sansa and still allowed her that brief hope. It had gotten her through even after Ramsay had taken her to her flayed body, that candle.

This one is warm so close to her, dancing with the ocean winds, and smells faintly of something foreign. She imagines it is from Pentos, maybe Meereen. It brings her comfort, the waves and the wax, while she sits wide awake.

The soft knock on the door was all but expected, merely a waiting game for Sansa, and still her chest tightens.

“I was somehow dragged into another war council,” Daenerys cracks her neck, crossing the long distance until she’s at the windowsill. Sansa sits back to allow her to stand and watch the waves with her and finds the queen climbing into her lap instead.

Sansa chews at her lip. “I thought you were to call me to _your_ chambers?”

“Too impatient. I couldn’t stop thinking about you that whole time. About you, just waiting in here for me.”

“Oh,” Sansa says, dumb, her stomach in knots of anticipation. 

Daenerys tucks Sansa’s hair behind her ear, loose for once, and presses a kiss to her jaw. 

“Do you think if we were to rest, just for a moment, I would be called back?”

“Possibly,” Sansa smiles, head slipping back as Daenerys’ mouth finds her jaw. “Is that why you’re here? To rest?”

“No,” Daenerys sucks hard at the skin, and Sansa moans at the thought of it leaving a mark. Her mark, a physical representation of her and this while she is gone. “But the tide is relaxing enough for it, isn’t it?”

“It is,” Sansa agrees, arms wrapping around her.

“I’m sure the council will be fine for a night,” Daenerys hums, mouthing a lazy path down Sansa’s throat.

Sansa shivers, everything about this foreign, but she isn’t nervous. How could she be?

There’s little fear when being touched by Daenerys. It feels natural, the way she treats Sansa like she’s something to be treasured only making her more and more desperate. The hands delving past the laces of her dress are welcome, and when they rip open her dress, there’s only anticipation. Sheer, burning want.

She allows herself to give in completely despite how their responsibilities and dawn are just hours away. She pushes down the straps to her flimsy dress, her hands finding Daenerys’ breasts, her stomach. One skirts across her navel and to her hip, the other rolling Daenerys’ nipple between her digits and making her hiss.

“Sansa,” Daenerys’ voice is hoarse as she pulls away, eyes swallowed by black. “I want this. I want _you_ , Is that alright?”

Daenerys is leaving tomorrow. And she cannot let her leave without first having this.

“Gods, yes,” She nods, arching up to kiss her. Daenerys goes heady with it, sucking at her probing tongue. She lay her forehead against Sansa’s cheek, soft pants escaping her mouth that make Sansa’s insides curl.

“Do you truly want me? Do you want this?” Daenerys swallows. She regards Sansa with a hungry once over.

It makes Sansa feel akin to being aflame, her skin vibrating, and all she wants is to touch. Be touched. Only by her.

“Of course I do,” Sansa remarks, back arching at the fingertips that trace her clothed breast. She shivers with it and has to squeeze her eyes shut. Already, she feels overwhelmed, and yet so secure. “Please.”

“That’s a relief, then,” Daenerys laughs quietly, slowly unbuttoning down to Sansa’s navel as she sits back on her lap. “I only want to do what you wish. What you’re comfortable with.”

“Mm,” Sansa hums, pressing her legs together as a hand skirts her naked stomach. A kiss is pressed between her breasts, and she sighs. 

She feels Daenerys smile against her skin, “Would you like to lay down? It’d be much more comfortable for you.”

Her eyes slip open, and there Daenerys is, looking at her with such adoration she has to look away.

“Okay,” She nods, letting Daenerys pull her up from the chair. Daenerys makes a noise, tugging Sansa down to kiss her briefly. When she pulls away, it's to step out of her own silken smallclothes. 

She’s beautiful, simply put. Ethereal. The fire low in her belly erupts, and she has to touch her body. She does so, thumbs skirting Daenerys’ breast again. The woman whines, pushing into Sansa’s touch with enthusiasm, and she yanks at Sansa’s linen.

Gods, she wants her. She wants her tonight and she wants her when she returns. Because she knows she will, she has to.

“I see why men go to war for this,” Daenerys teases, tugging her by the hand until they are both on top of the silk covers. She lowers Sansa to them, wasting no time in kissing her again.

It's all Sansa wants to do for the rest of her days, have Daenerys push her down and lick into her mouth like this. Her hand on Sansa’s shoulder is scolding, holding her down just enough that Sansa daren’t move. And she doesn’t want to, not ever. She wants this, only this.

There is no fear. She thought she would be terrified when such an opportunity would arise. But she feels nothing but impatience, but love, and that combined with Daenerys’ attentiveness makes her ache with want. For her. Just her.

Daenerys pulls back, panting against Sansa’s mouth, and swallows.

“Can I touch you?”

Sansa blinks, “Are you not?”

“Not quite what I’m asking,” Daenerys giggles, thumbing Sansa’s collarbone. “Between your legs, Sansa.”

“Oh,” She chews her cheek, nodding earnestly, and can’t find what to do but wait. Thus, the anticipation makes her tremble, makes her throb in the cold air. “Yes. Yes, please. Please."

Daenerys licks her lips before pressing two of her fingers inside, tongue poking out among them. Sansa surprises even herself when she moans at the sight.

Little time is wasted when a wet finger drags across her and circles her entrance. It teases there, just the tip entering her. There’s no semblance of regality in the way she bucks down onto it, hands grappling at the sheets.

“Fuck,” Daenerys’ teeth bite into her lip, and she brings her thumb to Sansa’s clit as her digit wholly slides inside. “Gorgeous, Sansa. You’re so gorgeous.”

“ _Dany,_ ” is all she can get out, more of a grunt, as she properly parts her legs.

Daenerys moans, thrusting in and out in an agonizingly slow, come-hither motion. It rips a cry out of Sansa, and she grinds her hips down to meet her digit again. Daenerys shudders at the sight, and just the view of that makes Sansa’s chest thud harder.

She had known Daenerys would be attentive. To her needs and her wants and only what they both desired. She knew Daenerys had been with other women in her time in Essos, too, and that she knew how to strive for pleasure for both parties. But she wasn’t expecting _this_.

She never thought she’d get something like this, not ever. She’d certainly not expected to be granted the choice to be with someone like this who she truly cares for, who feels just the same. It makes her head swim.

Was it always supposed to feel like this?

“Oh, _fuck_ ,” She tries, her voice hoarse, and finds the hand between her legs. “Two. I want - want another. Please.”

Daenerys’ eyes focus in on her, lilac swallowed by seering, deep black as she pushes in another wet finger. She scissors them inside of Sansa before dragging them out and pushing deep back inside. It does something, hits something Daenerys must know of, because it rips a groan out of Sansa. Her back arches with the shudders that come as Daenerys repeats the motion.

Again and again and again, Sansa shakes through it as her gasps grow louder, and Daenerys attempts to shush her. 

“Do you want the men outside to hear us?” She whispers even as her mouth finds Sansa’s thigh. When she kisses high up it, digit pulling out and thrusting back inside, Sansa gives in entirely and brings her hands to Daenerys’ hair.

She tugs enough that Daenerys gets the hint and clambers up her body to meet Sansa’s eager mouth. 

“Another,” She tries again, angling Daenerys’ head to better kiss her, lick into her mouth. Daenerys whines with it, pressing down onto her clit, and Sansa grunts her reply.

“You’re sure?” Daenerys asks between pants despite her clear desire for it, and the kindness only makes Sansa throb around her more.

“Yes,” She nearly cries, kissing her again, “I can’t have you leave without having experienced this with you. So I want all that you want to give me. Alright?”

Daenerys’ nostrils flare, and her spare hand finds Sansa’s. She tugs it from the sheets to squeeze it, to hold it.

She watches Sansa pant as she adds a third finger alongside the other two, increasing the speed she thrusts and crooks them inside her. “I believe you’re going to have to be more specific, My Lady.”

Sansa colours even as she shamelessly bucks down on her fingers, the heel of her hand brushing her clit with every thrust.

“Your mouth,” She says, looking away to Daenerys’ ring on the windowsill behind them. It sits beside the flame, and that’s a lot like what this feels like. A Targaryen fucking her, turning her mind to mush and her body afire.

“Look at me,” Daenerys says softly, kissing her cheek. She complies, cheeks flush as she does, and finds Daenerys still staring down at her. “Don’t be embarrassed. I wish you could see how beautiful you are to me. Do you see what you do to me?”

She doesn’t get a chance to question that before Daenerys is guiding her hand to her own hole. It's wet, enough that the tip of Sansa’s index pushes in easy, and Daenerys groans low and guttural.

“It's you,” She says, biting at her lip. She pushes at Sansa’s hand with her own, encouraging her to continue. “Just from watching you, the way you’re so open for me, and look how wet you get me. It's all you.”

Sansa shakes, and Daenerys swallows her moan. She presses deeper inside Daenerys, nervous that her inexperience surely showed, and Daenerys’ hand tightens around her wrist. She continues to guide Sansa, unfurling two more of Sansa’s fingers and pushing them into her too.

“When I come back,” Daenerys’ heel presses down hard and unrelenting on Sansa’s clit again and circles in time with her thrusts inside. “When I have won and come back for you, you’re going to come on my tongue. That I promise you.”

That’s what does it for her. What pushes her over the edge. Sansa feels the moment she’s about to come, cunt tightening around Daenerys’ fingers. She whines through it and Daenerys doesn’t try to quiet her, only watches with a lick of her lips as she thrusts into her faster. Like she’s trying to draw it out of her.

“That’s it,” Daenerys pants, head falling back as Sansa tries to replicate the speed in and out of her. She trembles as she clambers on Sansa’s lap. The new angle makes it easier for Sansa to touch her, and in a daring move, she curls her digits inside Daenerys the way she had.

Daenerys has to grapple at Sansa’s body, blunt nails finding purchase in Sansa’s stomach as she grinds down on her hand.

“Faster,” She commands, lifting herself and back down with vigour. A dragon’s stamina.

She abides by her queen, going at a rhythm they both seem just fine with, and the sight makes her throb even after coming.

“You’re so beautiful,” She says, in awe, and Daenerys smiles even as she pants. Ashen hair clings to her face, her eyes hazy, and she is the most ethereal sight Sansa has ever bore witness to.

“You’re the cause,” Daenerys says before her head lolls back onto her shoulder, whines pitching higher and more desperate. “I’m nearly - _oh_ , I’m about to...”

She doesn’t get to the end of her sentence before she tightens around Sansa’s fingers. A wordless scream leaves her as she takes all she can from her orgasm, her hands tightening on Sansa’s hips. It's probably going to bruise, she thinks, and wishes it to be true. A bruise born out of love. That’s one she would be glad to feel.

Daenerys falls onto her, breasts pushing against Sansa’s as they pant together, and she presses an open-mouthed kiss to her neck.

“I meant it,” She says, voice hoarse like the wind has been knocked out of her chest, and nuzzles against her shoulder. She doesn’t need to elaborate. They both know.

“I look forward to it,” Sansa bites at a smile, turning her face to press her mouth to Daenerys’ temple.

Daenerys looks up, still breathless as she grins, and Sansa can’t help but replicate it.

“That was amazing,” Daenerys lay back against her arm and the pillows, sweat pooling between her breasts. “I wish we had more time.”

“The sun isn’t up yet,” Sansa airs, candlewick still burning in the night sky, and Daenerys bites at her forming smirk.

“You’re formidable,” She teases, pressing her mouth to Sansa’s shoulder anyway, hand lazily skirting Sansa’s stomach.

The feeling calms her after such events, and she can’t help but want to kiss her then. And so she does. And it is that simple. 

Daenerys responds eagerly, hand settling at her hip. 

“Now, I had Missandei draw a bath in my chambers. They’re only a hallway away: would you like to join me?”

“Presumptuous of you,” Sansa smiles, sitting up anyway, and Daenerys follows her. She pulls Sansa into a kiss even when they’re both standing, and she cannot deny her.

They make it to Daenerys’ quarters eventually, scarcely clothed in linens that are thrown off as soon as they’re inside.

After, she smells of Meereenese salts, just as she had that first night Daenerys had kissed her. Sansa falls asleep with her face tucked into Daenerys’ neck, a hand stroking through her damp hair. 

* * *

The light at dawn that wakes her is foreboding.

A bright orange stares back at her through the window opposite, light spilling through various the windows in Daenerys’ quarters.

It is a bewitching sight, the tide and distant dragon calls the only things she can hear. The war is forgotten, for now. She closes her eyes to it, pulled back into the warmth and comfort that Daenerys’ arms hold.

It's perfect, she thinks, as Daenerys’ limbs wrap around hers beneath the sheets. _Their_ sheets. Daenerys gives a soft hum as she wakes, her cheek nuzzling Sansa’s chest. Her head rests above Sansa’s heart, and surely, she must hear how quick it beats for her.

She traces a lazy path up Daenerys’ naked spine, who sighs appreciatively at the attention. She wraps her arms around Sansa’s stomach, and Sansa is quite content to lie here forever.

Until there is the shout of men from the beach, and she remembers.

Daenerys mutters something softly in Valyrian, pressing a sleepy kiss to Sansa’s chest. She pulls herself up, blinking owlishly as she does, and Sansa follows.

She knows. They both know what has to happen this morning and this day. But every spillage of time in this bed is one that neither wants to end, that they both will cherish.

“Good morning,” She smiles around the phrase, Sansa can sense it. She turns her head to find Daenerys settling a glass of water on the dresser nearby. She abandons it quickly when she realises she has Sansa’s attention, clambering out of the covers to wrap her arms around Sansa from behind. 

“Good morning,” Sansa parrots with a laugh, feeling up to thread her fingers through Daenerys’. She presses a kiss to Sansa’s shoulder, other hand stroking lazily up and down her spine.

“There was a moment, where I woke, that I thought last night had perhaps been a dream,” Daenerys releases her hand to travel the expanse of Sansa’s torso. Slender fingers find her breast and she jolts, a sudden rush of pleasure flooding her. “I’m really glad it wasn’t.”

“Very much real,” Sansa trails off into a sigh as Daenerys’ hand dips lower to part her legs as lazy, open kisses are pressed along the back of her neck. “Very real.”

“I wish you knew what you do to me,” Daenerys says against her skin, sucking a mark into her throat. She lets up just long enough to press her fingers into her mouth, Sansa craning her neck to watch, and Daenerys smirks around them. 

“I could give a good guess,” Daenerys presses her digits back between her legs and skirts her clit. Sansa quivers through a laugh, the pressure making her buck forward. 

Daenerys moans like she’s the one at will as she presses a kiss to one of the highest scars among her back, making no such deal of it. She works at Sansa steadily, pace as languid as the waves below and the wind that carries through the windows. 

The tip of her fingers breaches Sansa’s hole and she mewls. Daenerys presses inside as slow as the winds outside.

“Yes,” Sansa’s head falls back onto her shoulder, pulling Daenerys into an open, lazy kiss with a shaking hand. “ _Oh._ ”

“You’re something else,” Daenerys says between licks into her mouth and the grinding of her hand, “You’re beautiful, Sansa. You’re so beautiful.”

Sansa groans, shivering at her words. It's such a strange feeling, to be full and to be so taken with pleasure. It's a foreign feeling she is fast coming to desire. But she’s not the only one of the two of them who enjoys the sensation, she’s sure, and she has to pause.

“I want - want to touch you, too. Please.”

“You don’t need to,” Daenerys goes pliant anyway the moment Sansa tugs Daenerys’ hand out of her, twisting in her grip.

“I want to,” Sansa admits, feverish with the idea of it, and Daenerys nods silently with a heave of her chest. She swallows. This kind of power was entirely new. It makes her tremble even more so watching Daenerys stare at her, slack-jawed and eyes wide. “Sit back.”

Daenerys licks her lips, moving as requested. It makes Sansa shiver, even as Daenerys pulls her along with a hand in hers.

Sansa ignores any kind of nerves, emboldened by the rise and fall of Daenerys’ chest and her wide eyes. She lifts one of Daenerys’ thighs, nudging it aside. Daenerys lifts it until it bends, letting Sansa guide her.

“Margaery told me about this once,” She breathes out, pressing a thumb to Daenerys’ clit just to watch her eyes squeeze shut in pleasure. “How ladies would pleasure other ladies in Highgarden.”

“She did?” Daenerys shudders, rolling her hips anyway. “Unfortunately, I’m not Margaery Tyrell. I don’t quite know what I’m doing.”

“I just need you,” She kisses her because she can, and Daenerys eagerly meets it. While she’s distracted by the kiss, Sansa removes her hand and scoots between her thighs, presses her core against Daenerys’ and thrusts.

Daenerys’ eyes roll back. She gasps as their hips roll together, clambering for grip. “I feel as though I’m burning.”

“Then it's the sweetest fire, don’t you think?” 

Daenerys smiles, and her face is a golden thing, shining with exertion and joy both. 

Her hand finds Sansa’s, both shaking in their grip, and tangles their digits together. “Are you going to fuck me?”

Sansa grunts, greedy, free hand grasping at Daenerys’ body. She didn’t want to think about what would happen hours from now. Only this. And her.

She rolls her hips again, harder this time, and the hands that find her hips shake.

Daenerys strains to grind up against her, sweat coating her brow, and Sansa loses herself in the desperate flow of it entirely.

* * *

Jorah is already at the door as Sansa is about to bid her leave.

He stands with a hand raised to knock, and his mouth twitches when he notes Sansa’s being there at all. Daenerys is still dressing behind her, pulling her chainmail on over her dress before Missandei arrives to braid her hair.

Sansa colours at their clear disarray, the wild hair and the wilder sheets. The bruise swelling at her throat and the way her hair is thrown up similar to how Arya and Jon style their own. Not purposeful, but practical.

“Lady Sansa,” He nods with pink cheeks. “Khaleesi, Grey Worm wishes to leave within the hour.”

“Yes, I’m sure,” She grunts, tugging her second boot on. “Are we prepared? How are the men manning the ships?”

“They spent hours ensuring we could leave at first light,” Jorah looks away, “I can see that you were rather busy. So you may not have been aware.”

Daenerys’ lips pressed together. “You’re antsy to sail, I am too. Just give me a moment, alright?”

Jorah nods, bowing his leave. “I’ll wait for you in the throne room.”

Daenerys smiles gratefully. “Thank you.”

When he leaves, Daenerys doesn’t hesitate to step close. 

She’s in her house colours, the first time since they’ve met, Sansa realises. Red silk interweaves a black leather armour dress, scaled like her children. She has always looked powerful, regal, but such a look is the most befitting for a Targaryen Queen she has seen yet.

But her sudden nerves overpower anything else, and she tugs Daenerys into a hug.

“Be careful,” She chokes out, “Take that throne of yours. And come back to me.”

“I promised you, didn’t I?” Daenerys cups her cheek, tucking her stray hair behind her ear. Her eyes glisten.

Sansa cannot speak, only embraces Daenerys again. 

The walk down to the throne room is a bittersweet one, and Sansa pays little mind to the conversation Daenerys shares with the Unsullied behind them. The war is of great importance, far more than her own, selfish feelings. No matter how much she doesn’t want this to happen, she knows it has to.

Daenerys pauses by Jorah, stock still. He reaches out to squeeze her shoulder, and when she spares a look back to both Sansa and Missandei, it is one so full of conflicting emotions that Sansa can’t help but walk forward. 

She kisses Daenerys again before she can help herself, overcome with it, and disregards everyone else in the room entirely when Daenerys’ grapples at her. Their mouths dance and wet tracks down Daenerys’ cheeks and mingles in their kiss.

“Be careful,” She demands, something useless, and presses their foreheads together.

“I wish I could just stay,” Daenerys exhales harshly.

“I could never let you do that,” Sansa swallows, closing her eyes to it all for a second, with only Daenerys’ arms around her. “Get rid of her.”

“I’m going to.”

Daenerys pulls away with furrowed brows. 

The last she sees of her retreating figure is Jorah pulls her into a side hug, and her allowing him.

The last she hears of her, even as they watch the boats leave, is Drogon’s cry piercing the air.

He whizzes past them and the boats, Daenerys on his back. She watches them fly until she can no longer see them, and stays at the window a lot longer after that.

* * *

Council meetings the following day are odd.

She attends, of course she does, she has to. With only Varys, herself, Brienne and Missandei, it feels empty.

Even as they speak, discussing what is to happen after and if they win the war, it feels odd. _Wrong_. Wrong without her or her siblings. She cannot concentrate on any matter, her only thoughts held up with the war just across the sea. They don’t matter to her or in general, really. Why should she care when Daenerys is across that water fighting for the throne?

Cersei will not go down easy. And taking the crown and the throne from her clutch will be difficult. She knows that. Daenerys is obviously a formidable force and warrior, she knows that too, but she’s still terrified. 

She could die, in any number of ways. Just one of those bolts could find her heart, or Drogon’s, and the war would be lost. And Sansa would not know. Instead, she is left to fret on this rock, to antagonise over this very thought on a loop until they get word.

When Varys dismisses them hours earlier than normal, she takes his mercy for what it is and thanks him. He nods and takes his own leave. Where, she doesn’t know, but Missandei collects her arm.

“Did you know several fishing ports exist on this island?” She asks, leading her toward the doors to leave the castle anyway, and Brienne follows after them.

“No,” She swallows, replicating Missandei’s own, warm smile with her own. She’s grateful to her and what a loyal friend she has become, even when she didn’t have to be. Sansa had treated her, along with all of Daenerys’ people, terribly at first. She wasn’t sure she deserved it.

“Well, would you like to see them?”

She can't say _no._

It's the market they find first, quaint and bustling with fishermen and traders. Men from Essos who Missandei kindly translates to Sansa, even when the things they shout to each other are not so kind.

“Would you like to try a cockle?” 

Missandei stands expectantly at a wooden, hand-built stall, and it briefly reminds Sansa of Winter Town. Of the days Robb would sneak her out of lessons and they would explore, spending the spare coins father was willing to spare him. He always found out, of course, the people were willing to reveal their whereabouts to her mother for a coin, but they remained fond memories. 

“Of course,” She nods, smiling at all who look her way and makes her way down the pier to the stall. Missandei hands over the mollusc without a word, smile wavering.

The trader that watches her clutches at the tray of shells with shaking hands, and a quick look at his bag of coins on the table finds it mostly empty. 

She tips her head back, a mimic of Missandei, and sputters at the taste. The food on Dragonstone consists of fish and only fish, and she has not proven a fan. The food in King’s Landing had always been incredible, regardless of what she’d been victim to, and she was quite looking forward to trialling it again. Without the mass familial murder, war and Joffrey Baratheon this time.

And wasn’t that a thought? Never had she dreamt of returning to the city once she had left it. Only of Winterfell. And yet, here she was, fool as ever for a woman who may not survive.

She shouldn’t think like that, but she can’t shake the thought away. They only grow stronger as her feelings for her solidify, and it's a potent mix she can’t rid of.

“Here,” Steadfastly, she shoves her hand into her own pockets. She pulls out the Essos coins Arya had given her out of luck, and hands it to the man directly. She curves her hand over his and squeezes. “I’ve never been to Pentos myself, but I think this is worth a little more than your stall. It should be enough for a vial of Milk of the poppy.”

“Thank you,” He is red in the face, and his laugh of surprise pulls one from Sansa, too. “It's worth more than gold, I - thank you, Your Grace.”

She smiles brightly. “Have a good day, Ser.”

“You too,” He bows his head as he lowers the tray, and Missandei takes another for good measure.

Missandei grins as she links their arms once again, nudging Sansa softly. “That was kind of you.”

Sansa shakes her head, looking up to the distant cliffs. She would have to go up to check on Viserion at some point, she figured, as Sam suggested. Much like humans, dragons didn’t much like being alone. 

“Did you see how his hands shook? He still has to work in such conditions, and I could do something to help. It's not like you wouldn’t have done the same.”

“I would have,” Missandei frowns at the winds that hit them, “But my actions don’t matter to them. I’m not the one who’s betrothed to a queen, am I?”

Sansa sucks in a breath, face hot as she looks away. “We’re not-”

Missandei’s smile grows. “You love her, do you not?”

“I don’t know,” Sansa toys with the chain of her dress.

“So she wants you to rule with her, and you are together, quite clearly. It seems to me that the progression after that is pretty straight forward.”

Would that be something she wanted?

Her only experience with marriage had been with Tyrion amongst a city of predators and then _him_. The first had been a farce to torture her and the second much worse. Something she hadn’t fathomed ever surviving.

Daenerys was not like the Lannisters, and the furthest person from Ramsay Bolton she knew. But the thought still scared her.

She loved what they had together. Such a true, beautiful thing. She cherished it and her. Though, the question remained, would the crown get in the way of that? Or would it push them closer? That is if Daenerys even survives. She doesn’t know, and it terrifies her.

“We should head back to the castle,” She says, and even though Missandei’s gaze falters, she agrees.

* * *

She finds Viserion out on the cliffs behind the castle.

Rhaegal is nowhere to be seen, most likely elsewhere on the cliff face.

The winds are nonexistent back here, barred by the stone walls of the castle, and so it's significantly calmer than the rest of Dragonstone. She’s found it to be hectic, the weather as unpredictable as those inside the castle, and her own state of mind.

The quiet of these cliffs is a nice break.

When she approaches the dragon, he doesn’t react save for a turn of his head.

His wing is still visibly healing, though the wound is noticeably smaller than the time he had been struck. Unlike Rhaegal’s. She winces at the sight of it, and perches herself nearby on smaller grass.

“I miss her too,” She says, aloud and still so quiet. The only thing she hears. “It's odd, isn’t it. We’re alone again. And so much is different to the last time I saw you.”

He blinks, golden eyes focusing on her. It's stupid to think he understands what she’s saying and what she means, but perhaps he understands her devastation. Perhaps not. Still, it's therapeutic to find refuge in sitting beside him. 

“I hope she’s alright. I just wish I knew if she was.”

There’s a chirp from him, and she can’t help but smile. It's an odd thing, pained as she chokes on a lump in her throat she hadn’t realised was there. The tears come soon after, and her chest feels like it's about to burst - she feels so much.

“I think I love her,” Sansa admits to a blank stare, an incredulous, wet laugh escaping as Viserion nudges at her side. 

“Lady Sansa.”

Brienne’s voice carries from behind her, and she daren’t look back. If Brienne was to see her crying, she would seem weak. She must be strong for her people, knights and lords and the common people alike.

“Ser Brienne,” She wipes at her face, smoothing down her furs as though they’re not tussled by the earlier winds or the charred grass below her. 

“Missandei told me you disappeared after you visited the docks. She seemed worried.”

“And you came here?”

Brienne shifts into focus, standing beside her with a grimace set on Viserion. She didn’t trust him, and how could Sansa blame her? She hadn’t either.

“You’ve been crying,” Brienne comments, her brows furrowed, “I couldn’t find you at the docks. This was my last guess.”

Her stomach twinges thinking of Brienne looking for her all about the island in worry. “I’m sorry. I should’ve told you I was coming here.”

“It's quite alright, my lady. Are you alright?”

She knows she should remain strong. And she tries, by all the gods she does, nails in her palm and lip between her teeth. Still, she can’t resist Brienne’s branch of kindness and shakes her head. 

“It sounds ridiculous.”

Brienne stands straight, armour clanking. “The first time we met, I told you Renly Baratheon had been stabbed by a shadow. I have said more ridiculous things than what you’re about to, it doesn’t make them untrue.”

Sansa scoffs, that image of herself in the tavern opposite Baelish. What a fool she’d been. “I should have listened to you.”

“Maybe,” Brienne squints between herself and the dragon. He nudges at Sansa’s side again, and she runs her hand along his snout. The warm scales are calming.

Sansa sighs, choosing to watch Viserion as he huffs at Brienne. “I’m worried.”

“With respect, I think we all are,” Brienne smiles, though it wavers at the lack of response. “Is there something in particular?”

Sansa looks up, nose flaring. She bares her face and her emotions to her, dares her to question them. “She could be dead and I wouldn’t know.”

Brienne’s eyes soften. “As is the risk of going to war. You knew all along that this is what was going to happen.”

Somehow, the tone of her voice suggests to Sansa that the war isn’t all she’s talking about. 

“It doesn’t mean I’m alright with it. I hate being stuck here while they’re fighting her and her men. My siblings, my only family, and Daenerys…” She cuts herself off, an incredulous laugh escaping. “I can’t lose her.”

Brienne crouches beside her, wincing with her armour. “You told me back in Winterfell that you thought she was superficial and power-hungry. When did that change?”

“I don’t think I ever fully believed that,” Sansa huffs a wet laugh, “I saw something in her in that council meeting. I didn’t realise I was going to fall in love with her.”

Brienne audibly swallows, and an awkward hand is pressed to her shoulder. Brienne is not one for comforting another, but she appreciates it anyway. “The day she left, I saw how Jorah had to console her on the beach. I don’t think you are the only one having fallen, Your Grace.”

Heart skipping, she sniffs. “What does that matter if Cersei beats her?”

“She would still come back for you.”

Sansa thinks of such an event. If they had lost, if her armies were squandered and her dragons shot down. Even then, so long as she had her, she knew she could accept it. A life of obscurity in Essos with her would be better than none at all.

“And what if Euron gets to her? Or Jaime? Tyrion?”

Brienne looks up toward the horizon, squinting as she does. “They say she walked into a pyre and birthed those dragons from stone. How can someone like that not win a war?”

Sansa ponders that, and pets Viserion again as she stands too. She rubs at her eyes, surely red and swollen, and lifts her chin. “I should get back to work.”

“Would you like me to come with you?”

“Alright,” Sansa blinks. “Brienne, if I asked something of you, would you comply?”

“I swore to serve you and your sister no matter what, My Lady, of course.”

“Ride for Rosby tonight. Find word of what is happening in King’s Landing and what is of my siblings and Daenerys. And return tomorrow.”

Brienne nods. “Of course, Your Grace.”

“Thank you, Brienne. For everything you’ve done for me.”

“There’s no need for thanks,” She pauses on the way back to the castle, turning back to where Sansa stands with Viserion as he flutters his wingspan. “You know, I always suspected there may be something there. I’m glad I was correct.”

* * *

Brienne leaves that eve, and the castle feels that much more empty. 

Davos brings her a raven from Bran that reports the North is in harmony under him, for once, and his relief for her. She doesn’t know how he knew, has probably known since Daenerys landed in Winterfell, but she knows she has to write back.

She vows to at first light, bundling up in the sheets of Daenerys’ bed instead. 

* * *

It's as she’s writing back to Bran that she catches the first dragon cry.

A deep, victorious roar, followed by another. 

She abandons the quill and parchment and the people in the map room to take immediate leave for the cliffs. Davos and Varys scarcely look up except to share a look that she doesn’t care for.

By the time she’s at the cliffs behind the castle where she had found Viserion, Daenerys is already on the ground as Drogon swoops high in the sky. Viserion and Rhaegal call out to her, and the sight of them alone nearly brings tears to her eyes.

Much like that morning in Winterfell, ash and blood cover Daenerys and her clothes, her hair and her face most of all. A fresh wound above her brow seeps into it, blood crusted in the dark hairs, and her eyes are wild.

She pats both Rhaegal and Viserion’s snouts, who chirp much like satisfied cats and turn to leave her be.

When she sees Sansa, she pulls herself away from her children. It twists her stomach.

Sansa’s body aches with such relief her legs could bow beneath her. It claws its way out of her and releases in a gasp as Daenerys draws her into her arms.

“ _Oh_ ,” Daenerys mumbles to herself, grimy hands snaking into Sansa’s hair. She grips her tight and Sansa holds her tighter, her joy so large it overcomes her.

“You’re okay,” Sansa says, dumbly, and Daenerys hiccups a laugh even as her eyes fill.

“I said I’d come back to you,” She cradles Sansa’s jaw, as golden as the sun rising behind her. Sansa is overcome with emotion and crowds her, pushing her back against stone walls and her lips finding Daenerys’. 

Daenerys kisses back with ease, a sigh escaping into Sansa’s mouth. Her hands tug at Sansa’s lazy braids as she opens her mouth to Sansa. 

“I thought you might’ve... I didn’t know what to think,” Sansa feels a rush of elation, hands touching everywhere and settling on her side. “I didn’t know how I felt before. But I do, now, I know. I can’t be apart from you.”

“I won’t do this to you again,” Daenerys promises as she thumbs her nape, leaning up to catch her mouth again. And again and again. “ _I won’t_.”

When they break apart, they’re both heaving, and Daenerys presses her forehead against her shoulder. 

“When I captured her and I took the Keep, I thought about you. When the people looked up to my children in awe, all I thought of was what you’d say. I wanted you there with me when the kingdoms became mine and, gods, I want to share the rest with you.”

“I want that too,” Sansa kisses her temple, and Daenerys’ eyes flutter. “I want everything with you.”

Daenerys hums, pulling Sansa’s hair soft enough to press their foreheads together. They breathe heavily, so many emotions and events catching up to them both, and Sansa can’t help but grin.

“What?” Daenerys’ mouth twitches.

“You did it,” She chortles, letting her eyes slip shut. “And now I have you.”

Daenerys mumbles something under her breath, something Sansa suspects is Valyrian and tugs Sansa into a kiss.

“Cersei is still alive,” Daenerys says when she breaks away. She cups Sansa’s face, “I imprisoned her and pardoned Jaime. He was about to kill her. Is that alright?”

“I couldn’t presume-”

“Your opinion is important to me, Sansa. I know you won’t lie to me. Did I make a mistake?”

“I think it was wise to let Jaime go and to keep her. She deserves a death as much a spectacle of those she’s caused.”

Daenerys inhales. She strokes Sansa’s cheek. 

“Alright.”

* * *

Jon, Arya and a small portion of their men arrive shortly after to the island. Enough to protect Daenerys to and from the capital.

The majority of both the northern and Daenerys’ forces remain in the city with Grey Worm and Jorah. To guard and protect it, Sansa assumes, though it seems redundant given that the Lannisters are no longer an issue.

“I found Jaime with a knife to Cersei’s throat,” Arya explains as they watch Khals ahead of them carry food previously stored in the castle. Some will remain for those who live on the island, enough for them to live on through winter, but everything else is to be taken to the capital with them.

Sansa feels odd enough, knowing she’d escaped by the skin of her teeth on the seas from King’s Landing so long ago, it seems. And now, here she was, near giddy at the thought of returning at the head of a fleet. A queen by all rights. It was maddening. 

“You should’ve let him finish the job,” Sansa scoffs, and her sister rolls her eyes. 

“Your queen wanted her captured, I took care of Jaime and found Tyrion dead on the way out. I finished my own, thank you very much.”

“And what a fine job you did,” Daenerys says as she comes behind them on the path, a handful of Unsullied carrying crates behind her. She lays her hand low on Sansa’s back as they walk, looking her way with a twitch of acknowledgement. 

She faces Arya, who pointedly stares forward toward where Jon and Davos are speaking. “Your sister is a formidable warrior, one much like my own ancestors who took Westeros, and just as formidable in her role as your sister, too.”

Sansa’s smile and attention, directed to Daenerys, wains. She looks to Arya with a tilt of her head and faces a raised brow. 

“I warned her what would happen if she dared try to betray or harm you. I’m not letting that happen again and neither is Jon.”

“Well, you needn’t worry about all that anymore,” Sansa speaks with such conviction that she notes Daenerys’ breath quicken. “All my enemies are dead. Or they will be.”

“The world is better for it,” Daenerys straightens as Jon approaches. “Are you sure you don’t wish to come with us, Arya? It’d be an hour to have you be a part of my service.”

Arya shrugs, “I’m not a big fan of the city. My brothers are going to need help managing the North anyway. We’re in for a long winter.”

“Sail with us to King’s Landing at least,” Sansa frowns.

Arya pulls a face, ready to deny it surely when Jon speaks. “We’ll come and check out how King’s Landing fairs with two decent people ruling it before riding back. Won’t we, Arya?”

She glares up at her brother, who only chuckles in response. “I’d.. love to sail with you if that’s alright.”

Daenerys breathes out a laugh, “Of course. I need all the help I can get.”

* * *

The sail is even odder.

Sansa feels apprehension, of course she does. Fear and worry, too. But she’s elated.

The Lannisters no longer hold the city. The Boltons and the Frays and are all dead and gone. They pose no threat to her or her family or those she cares for any longer. All things she had never imagined were to happen in her lifetime. The kind of elation that draws out of her is undeniable. 

And to become a queen of the people with the person she loves is simply something she had never comprehended happening. Of course, she dreamt of it as a girl, of pretty dresses and long summers and a king to sweep her off of her feet. She had never envisioned a queen, a Targaryen at that, at the tipping point of winter. 

“Leave your work for the night,” Daenerys lay naked at the head of their bed - because there was no element of secrecy anymore, and they had been assigned the head chambers. She twirls a loose, silver curl around her finger. “Please?”

She cannot even pretend to still be engrossed in the letters in front of her when she watches Daenerys trail a lazy hand down her body. She palms her own breast, sighing Sansa’s name as she squeezes a nipple between two fingers, and Sansa grips the table. 

Heat floods her core when Daenerys’ other hand dips low and between her legs.

“Your queen demands you attend to her needs,” Daenerys breathes out, hand moving in time with her hips. It doesn’t take long at all to realise what she’s up to, and when she does, Sansa throbs between her thighs too. 

“I have work to do,” Sansa tries, eyes focusing solely on her. She’s flush as the heel of her hand circulates. She watches Sansa right back, taunting her with heavy lids and an intense concentration on Sansa that makes her grow hotter.

“Your work can wait,” Daenerys says, voice climbing high. “Come here.”

Before she knows it she’s crossing the room and climbing onto the bed. Fully clothed, she straddles her, and Daenerys licks her lips with a self-satisfied smirk. She pauses for a moment to merely watch Sansa, bottom lip pulled between her teeth, and a soft smile graces her face. 

“I can’t believe I get this,” She says, hand settling on Sansa’s waist. They kiss, and with it, Daenerys draws a true smile out of her too. 

“I never thought this would ever happen when I first saw you in the courtyard,” Sansa says, and laughs against Daenerys’ mouth. “I despised you.”

“I don’t believe you,” Daenerys hovers by her mouth, gaze fixated on it, and Sansa clambers properly into her lap to kiss her jaw. Daenerys tips her head back, exposing her throat to her, and that kind of clear trust makes her head spin. “You let me kiss you just the next day.”

She presses a kiss into the skin of her neck. “I touched myself after. Thinking of you.” 

“You did?” Daenerys groans, moving to push up Sansa’s skirts with all of its intricate designs, her intentions clear, but Sansa takes her hand.

“No,” Daenerys instantly stills. The instant trust warms her. “Lay back.”

Daenerys falters, shuffling awkwardly to lay back against the pillows. Her brows furrow as she watches Sansa, probably for any indication of why. One remains more still than the other, a large suture running through it. Given Daenerys had just taken a city and ended a war, she thinks that and a handful of bruises is incredibly lucky. 

She finds the act of submission to her, such a simple surrender, makes her stomach churn. Swallowing away the nerves, she slides her palms up Daenerys’ torso and to her arms. Yellow, tender marks litter her body but she leans up into Sansa’s touch regardless, lip between her teeth.

Sansa shivers, focuses on that white-hot desire and leans down on her elbows to lick a stripe up her breast.

Daenerys gasps with surprise, pliant and panting as Sansa’s mouth centres on her nipple. The willingness makes the throbbing between her legs unbearable, but this isn’t about her. She wants Daenerys to feel her relief, her ever-growing love for her - she wants to make her feel good.

“I wish I’d let you touch me that night,” Sansa pauses, thumbing her other nipple just to watch her keen.

“S _ansa_ ,” Her lips part around her name, and her hand tightens on Sansa’s dress. “Sansa, you don’t have to-”

“I want to. I want to make you feel good.”

“You’re succeeding,” Daenerys’ laughter is hoarse and falls apart when Sansa’s mouth finds her breast again.

Sansa reaches a hand down between her own legs to relieve the ache. It's a desperate thing as she travels down Daenerys’ body until she’s between her legs.

She hesitates, looking back up to Daenerys. Her eyes are black and intense as they watch Sansa. “Can I taste you?”

“Can you?” Daenerys scoffs like it's been ripped out of her, and her hand finds Sansa’s hair. “ _Yes_. Gods, please. But only if you want.”

Oh, she wants. 

Sansa presses an experimental kiss to her clit, crooking her own finger inside herself as she does, and Daenerys watches over heaving breasts. She repeats the action and Daenerys, ever so gently, circles her hips upward. Sansa likes it, she realises, squeezing her other hand on Daenerys’ thigh. Loves it, even, deriving pleasure just from causing hers.

The moonlight that sneaks through the window encaptures Daenerys and the otherworldly vision that she is as Sansa’s tongue enters her. She’s instantly bucking down onto her tongue, pulling her in deeper, her face scrunched up and eyes squeezed shut. 

She tastes… Gods. She tastes heavenly. She can’t help but moan herself, feels Daenerys shake with it, because it's so overwhelming. Sansa is responsible for the way she’s falling apart, and something animalistic dances in her.

“Please,” Daenerys pants, an empty request, her hand tightening in Sansa’s hair. Her scalp tingles, and she pushes her head back into her grip.

Sansa’s thumb finds Daenerys’ clit, just as she had done to Sansa when they’d first arrived, and she mimics the circular motion. She must succeed if Daenerys’ cries are any indication. She would normally fret that the others could hear. 

She should.

She doesn’t. Her cries make Sansa throb around her own digit and she adds a second, shamelessly, as she licks at Daenerys like she’s starved.

“Sansa,” She warns, thrusting up against her face with shameless abandon, her legs trembling either side of Sansa’s head. “Sansa. _I’m so_... I’m so close. It's so much.”

Sansa hums against her core, tongue curling inside, and Daenerys’ movements grow more fanatic. She grips Sansa’s hair, pulling her down and deeper inside. She’s using Sansa’s mouth to get off, and Sansa nearly comes right there at that realisation, too.

She moves to press her tongue flat against Daenerys’ clit, and. And that’s the final straw.

Daenerys keens high and loud as she releases, still canting her hips. Sansa thinks she’s panting her name but it's so incomprehensible she can’t really tell. 

She sits up to properly watch her break, feels drunk on the knowledge she did that. Lazily, she toys with herself as Daenerys gains her breath back. 

Daenerys tugs weakly at her wrist and Sansa pulls her digits out to climb up her body and kiss her.

Dazed, Daenerys kisses her back with a keen sigh. Apparently tasting herself doesn’t bother her much at all given how easily she opens up.

“That was incredible,” Daenerys smiles against Sansa’s mouth. Then, before Sansa can do much else, Daenerys flips their positions. 

Daenerys kisses her even as she’s still visibly shaking through the aftershocks, and wastes no time pulling away and kneeling between her thighs.

“I didn’t realise you were touching yourself too, at first,” She says quietly, hot breath on Sansa’s core, and Sansa’s eyes roll back. Daenerys hums, hands finding the meat of Sansa’s thighs. “Do I affect you that much?”

“Of course you do.”

Sansa is still bewildered at the flip, but nods, unable to speak. She sucks her lip into her mouth as Daenerys pushes up her skirts to press her tongue flat against her hole. When she speaks it vibrates, and Sansa can do nothing but surrender. 

“I believe I made you a promise.”

She rests her head back against the pillows, hands finding purchase in the sheets as Daenerys licks a long, hot stripe from her hole to her clit. 

Something about her committing to such an act while Sansa is fully clothed makes her constrict around nothing until Daenerys’ fingers push inside. Two, soaked with her arousal, that instantly slides into her with abandon. Her mouth centres on Sansa’s clit only, suckling at it like she’s parched.

The combination rips heady groans from Sansa’s throat, and she gives a single buck of her hips. Daenerys moans around her, tongue poking out to tease her alongside the hot suction of her mouth.

“Fuck,” She whines uselessly, gripping the silk tighter as Daenerys’ fingers thrust inside and out with such speed she can barely feel empty. Instead, she’s impossibly full, and taken over by thick, syrupy pleasure. 

Daenerys hums, adding a third alongside the other two digits, stretching her open. With her walls tightening around the fingers and her thighs trembling under the grip of Daenerys’ other hand, her stomach constricts tightly as an orgasm is pulled out of her.

Daenerys continues to fuck her through it, lapping at her unabashedly. Sansa feels spent, boneless and clammy against the sheets, and closes her eyes as she catches her breath.

She taps at Daenerys’ shoulder for her to stop, the overstimulation bordering uncomfortable, and she presses a kiss to her thigh before pulling away. She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand and lays her head on Sansa’s stomach. 

“Was I good?” She can’t help but wonder aloud. 

Daenerys looks up, chin soft on her tummy, and narrows her eyes. 

“In case you didn’t notice, I did just come on your face and you on mine,” Daenerys says like it's nothing, and Sansa can’t help but colour. Daenerys giggles softly. “Yes, of course, you were amazing.”

“I’m really glad,” Sansa chews on her lip, smiling despite her doubt when Daenerys releases a yawn against her stomach. 

“I can’t believe I get this, get you.”

Sansa’s face breaks into a grin, “Believe it.”

Daenerys turns her smile into the cooling skin of her stomach, bashful somehow, and Sansa lays her head back against the pillow. Daenerys pulls herself up with a grumble, pressing a kiss to her jaw before laying beside her.

They lie together for a moment, still very much catching their breath, and she feels dizzy with the elation. For once, at the risk of night and silence, her thoughts don’t stray to either of her previous husbands or the monsters at her tail at all. Instead, all she can focus on is the woman laid beside her. 

The woman she’s about to rule the country with.

“One moment,” Daenerys presses a kiss to Sansa’s cheek, hand delicate on her shoulder as she sits up.

She staggers away on shaky legs for a bowl and a cloth for each of them. Sansa closes her eyes, drifting off as she hears the slosh of water. When she opens them, Daenerys is near enough that she throws it Sansa’s way. She catches it in one hand, her movement sluggish, and Daenerys chuckles.

She settles the bowl on the table beside the bed before clambering onto the bed herself. She curls into Sansa, heated skin pressed against hers. She doesn’t mind so much, actually, content instead to wrap an arm around her too.

“It can wait a moment,” Daenerys sighs, resting her head upon Sansa’s chest. She was inclined to agree.

* * *

The morning of them approaching the shore brings an odd sense of excitement aboard.

It's been there since they’d arrived at Dragonstone after the win, but the walls free of weapons and the bay vacant of Euron’s fleet cement their success. They had _won_. 

“The last time I was here, I was fleeing Joffrey’s murder,” Sansa retorts to her sister beside her as they watch the dragons go on ahead. They play together among the clouds above the city, nothing at all like the gigantic, ferocious beasts they are known to be. The fact that that barely bothers her is a peculiar thing in itself.

“And I Father’s,” Arya huffs. Her brows raise, looking behind Sansa, and she doesn’t need to check as arms wrap around her.

“And now it's your city,” Daenerys lay her chin on Sansa’s shoulder, pressing a kiss to the exposed skin. She regards Arya. “You’re always welcome. Any of you.”

Sansa curves in her arms enough to pull them tighter around her. There’s looks their way, she knows there must be, but she doesn’t really care that much.

“Well, if you ever want to come to the North in the dead of winter, you’re welcome too.”

Sansa snorts, sharing a look with Daenerys. “You’re sure you really don’t want to stay?”

Arya observes them with blatant joy, the kind she would show as a girl. Back when no such horrors existed to them. “No, Bran is going to need all the help he can get. What good would I do here?”

“I’m sure you could find something you want to do. Father always wanted you to be nothing but yourself, Arya. He’d be glad you even have the option.”

Arya’s face washes over with the same, slightly far-off look it has when their family is mentioned. “I belong in Winterfell. And it's okay if you don’t feel like you do.”

Daenerys pulls away to fix her braids, pulled tight on the top of her head leaving much of it loose over her shoulders. It was approachable, a merging of Essos’ and Westeros’ styles. 

“Winterfell will always be my home,” Sansa looks forward to the Keep as they approach it. Daenerys steps forth to grip the railing, watching her children swoop around the building with unbridled delight. “I suppose it's not the only one I have now.”

Arya turns her face to smile at that, and Sansa colours.

“Jon wants to leave with the wildlings to find land in the North,” She informs, mouth pursed. “So, I suppose you’re not the only one.”

“He’s with Tormund, isn’t he?” Sansa asks simply, tilting her head. She had suspected. Now, it must be true. He wouldn’t leave his duties for anything but love.

“Gods, you really are a slow learner,” Arya shakes her head in a silent laugh. “We’ll be fine, though, me and Bran. I promise.”

“I’ll visit,” Sansa insists. “We will.”

“Of course we will,” Daenerys agrees, turning to lean back against the rail. 

Arya lifts her head in appreciation. She gestures loosely to Daenerys. “Did anything happen on the way here?”

“Dorne sent word of their new prince’s support,” Daenerys says, her hands pressed tightly together at her front. “When my ancestors first conquered Westeros, Dorne refused to bend for years.”

“Elia supported you, didn’t she? It makes sense that her family wants to honour that.”

Daenerys’ gaze drifts away. “And Cersei let her rot for it.”

“For many things,” Arya points out.

Daenerys looks back to them briefly. “I’m keeping her in the same place as a prisoner. I wasn’t... I don’t know what to do with her. I wanted to ask both of you for your opinion.”

Sansa crosses her fingers. She can’t keep them still. “What did Jorah say?”

“He agreed that she must die.”

Arya frowns, “And you’re asking us... what, exactly? Whether you should kill the woman who helped our family be killed and kept Sansa prisoner?”

“Arya,” Sansa warns. 

Daenerys holds up a palm. “No, I merely wonder... does she deserve something as humane as an execution? After all that she’s done, I don’t think so. But I cannot be unmerciful or put my feelings ahead of the law. That’s not the kind of queen I want to be.”

Sansa is unsure, to say the least.

Daenerys raises a good point, a great point actually. Cersei has committed unthinkable atrocities, not just to her family or to her friends but the entire realm. To the people in the city she ruled and set aflame. She had to pay for them. Sansa wanted her to suffer when she did.

Would the people see it that way? Their new queen, making an example of murdering the one she overthrew? Would they support her decision to do so, or would they see her dragon and her ruthlessness and conspire from that day to reject her as they did Cersei?

“Making an example of her is mercy and an execution is the wisest choice,” She settles on. “What are you doing to the throne?”

“Melting it,” Daenerys swallows, lashes fluttering. “I can’t improve a thing if that thing remains. All of the pain it's caused and for what? They are all skeletons now.”

Sansa reaches for her hand to squeeze it. “Then I think you’ve answered your own question.”

* * *

King’s Landing is a mess of snow and sunshine.

Of people crowding the streets ahead with banners, of more hiding amongst them to stare and to heckle. Previous Lannister soldiers who abandoned their swords in the battle watch on freely behind them, some grateful and gleeful, some not so much.

As they step off of the boat and to the rackety pier, Brienne finds them with a hardened smile. 

“My Queens,” She bows, making Sansa snort. She covers it with her hand but it's too late when she eyes Daenerys’ grin. She can’t help but mimic it. “I’m to escort you to the Red Keep.”

“When we get there,” Sansa says, mid tentative wave to the crowd. “I want to see her before she’s executed. If that’s okay.”

“Of course it is,” Daenerys’ eyes soften, “Do you want me to be with you?”

She did. Of course, she did. But she needed to face her alone, didn’t she? After so long, she wanted Cersei to see her having succeeded. A part of her even revelled at the fact she had been a part of Daenerys taking the kingdom from her. 

“I..”

“I will accompany you, My Lady, ” Brienne promises ahead of them, eyeing the people ahead. 

“Thank you,” Sincere, she inhales deep. Skirts Daenerys’ wrist with her hand. “I would like you there. I just want to confront her myself, alone. I think... I think I need to.”

Daenerys nods. “Of course.”

She walks a brief path ahead to take outstretched hands, demanding water from the nearest soldier, and Sansa feels perfectly content to watch her among her people.

She is less than content when Daenerys tugs her along to the next, a girl of no more than Fifteen asking about Winterfell. She complies anyway, and can’t feel scared with Daenerys’ hand in hers and Brienne behind them. 

The girl hands Sansa a direwolf figurine, carved of what must be the rubble of the Sept. She pockets it with great thanks, and the girl looks between them in awe.

These are her people too. She would make them love her.

* * *

The Red Keep is already one unlike the one that haunted her.

The most obvious changes come straight away. The snow, the shutters to bar it, the increase in torches and candlelight and a sweetness in the air that she had never encountered under Joffrey.

They remind her of the perfume on Daenerys’ skin.

There are no displays of any symbols anywhere yet, not even Targaryen or Stark. There wouldn’t be for a while, she was sure. Their men were too busy and Daenerys would be too preoccupied for it to matter much.

She does spot the iron Lannister lion leant against a wall, though, an afterthought to be ridden of.

Grey Worm and his men had clearly been at work in the week or so since Daenerys had been gone, and it shows already.

They leave him and the rest of those who arrived alongside them for the dungeons.

An unsettling chill climbs the back of her neck once they are down the stairs.

It's silent, save for the crackle of the torches and Brienne’s armour as they walk.

It is so dark she almost cannot tell when they arrive at Cersei’s cell.

When they do, Daenerys halts her with a hand at her stomach. She doesn’t ask, she doesn’t have to.

Brienne relights a torch on a column nearby, and thus, Cersei is illuminated. 

It's rather ironic to her that Cersei is dressed in Lannister crimson, clasped together in golden armour. 

She refuses to look away from the jeering eyes that follow her. 

“Leave us.”

Daenerys glares Cersei’s way one last time, teeth bared, and turns her attention on Sansa.

“We’re just a few steps away,” She palms Sansa’s cheek, warming her through, before backing away.

Cersei watches her leave with a slight raise to her brow. She hadn’t known, or she couldn’t have been sure, could she?

“I wanted to see you before they kill you.”

Cersei narrows her eyes. “You move on quickly, don’t you?”

That chill makes its way around her throat.

“I could say the same to you,” She bites through it, the visceral fear at the suggestion of him. “Your brother abandons you only to try and kill you. And Euron.. well.”

Cersei laughs, high and mocking. A mad sound. “No longer an innocent, little thing, are you?”

Sansa stares across at her, at the chains confining her to the wall. She imagines them breaking and Cersei’s hands finding her throat. It must be what she wants right now. She would if these iron gates weren’t in the way.

“You know, Daenerys pardoned Jaime. He and your soldiers. They surrendered to her.”

Cersei snarls at that, “I suppose you expect that to hurt me?”

“Not really,” Sansa swallows. When did you realise he was there to kill you? Were you grateful when my sister stopped him with his sword at your throat?”

Cersei looks away.

“You knew he would all along, didn’t you?” Sansa finds herself smirking at Cersei’s continued silence. “You knew someone would be the end of you and your house. You probably thought it would be Margaery, all this time. But for it to be the man you love...”

“You really are a heinous bitch, aren’t you? What happened to you?”

Sansa ignores that. She must. She continues. “It made sense for Margaery to replace you, it did. At what point did you realise it would be someone else? It was Daenerys’ attack on the rock, wasn’t it?”

“You mean the attack that cost her thousands of men, little dove? My men killed them all, if you remember.”

“And yet you lost,” Sansa steps forward. “Did it make you feel powerful? Do you feel powerful now?”

Cersei’s teeth bare in a snarl.

“I heard that you whored yourself out to the foreign bitch. I didn’t believe it to be true,” She tilts her head at Sansa’s nostril flare. “You secured your dying house’s position, I can at least admire that.”

“I love her, actually. Though I understand how something like that could be incomprehensible to you. Everything you loved is gone now, isn’t it?”

She glances a look back to the stairs. Brienne stands with her hand on the hilt of Oathkeeper, stern as always. Daenerys nods without a word. It's time, it seems, and Cersei’s has run out.

“Daenerys always wanted you dead when she won the war, but she granted my sister and me the final choice. I want you to die knowing that I decided how.”

Sansa steps away from her with her heart in her throat, Unsullied soldiers heading inside the cell when she does.

Daenerys takes her hand in solitude, pulling her away from the darkness and up into the daylight once again.

Once they’re up there, surrounded by greenery and sunshine, Daenerys slides her arms around her neck and pulls her down into a kiss.

Her surprise is muffled, though she kisses back without a thought. 

“I couldn’t help myself,” Daenerys captures her mouth again even as the dungeon doors swing open, and surely the soldiers are dragging Cersei to the throne room. She doesn’t care to look, not when Daenerys is holding her like this. 

“I’m not complaining,” Sansa whispers into her mouth. 

“Mm,” Daenerys tugs her closer, grip like a vice as their mouths move together. “Nobody can hurt you now. Not either of us. Do you understand?”

Sansa shivers at that. She’d told Jon, once, that nobody could protect her. All who had tried had failed. Perhaps, all that time, she needed only herself and a dragon at her side.

“I’ve thought about doing that a long time,” Sansa admits.

“I’m proud that you did,” Daenerys smiles, a small thing, her gaze drifting aside where Grey Worm awaits for them. Her mouth hovers over Sansa’s ear, “Find me after.”

Daenerys is already stepping away by the time she deciphers that suggestion and follows after Grey Worm.

They get to the throne room as Cersei is finished being chained. It's perhaps more silent than the dungeons, the select few lords inside stood in silence. They’d decided on a spectacle only to those who were important enough to recount the sight. Who would see the great, golden Lannisters become ash.

Drogon sits at the head of the room, his figure taking up most of it, patiently awaiting his mother’s demand.

“Are you sure?” She asks again, ignoring the echo of her whisper, catching Daenerys’ gaze as the people turn to witness their entry.

“As sure as anything,” Daenerys reassures, smiles subtle enough only Sansa notices it, and walks ahead.

Alone, she appears so small among yawning walls and the crowd that watch on in awe. She steps aside from the throne as Cersei thrashes at her from her iron chains. She only smiles, sweetly so, and lays a hand on Drogon’s shoulder.

He roars toward Cersei, a warning to not lay a finger upon his mother. Daenerys only soothes him, watching Cersei with a face serving as a blank slate.

“Dracarys,” She cries, loud and echoing for all to hear, and he complies.

The screams ring in her ears for the hours and days that follow. A repercussion she doesn’t mind at all, for actions she will never bear any guilt for.

* * *

Jaime is officially pardoned for his leave of King’s Landing the following day. With it, he hands in his sword and asks for it to be given to Brienne.

Sansa cannot refuse that of him.

* * *

The weeks that come after pass in a blur, for the most part.

Much is to be done to repair the damage Cersei has caused, to the country and the people and down to the grounds Sansa spends most of her time in now.

It isn’t easy, but she never expected it to be. Not for a moment.

As such, today is the first since they’d docked that she’s actually able to explore the gardens. It's the first time since she left, since the last war and running from that wedding feast.

She can’t say she missed it. But the foliage is comforting. Refreshing, even.

She picks at a lemon cake, half-leant over the stone balcony to watch the ships leave the bay. Perhaps they are merchants, or high-born, or maybe they’re leaving for Essos to never return. 

Still, she pops a cake in her mouth, humming in delight as she does, and turns away from foreign sigils and a forgotten, childish dream.

“I thought I’d find you here.”

Daenerys’ dress is a burgundy red, billowy in the slight wind, and matching the ruby in the crown on her head.

“What’s that meant to mean?”

Daenerys laughs, a fleeting thing, stepping between abandoned tables and chairs to join her at the balcony. 

“It means Brienne told me you’d been at those scrolls all morning and just taken your leave,” She inhales the sea air, chest rising and falling. She turns to eye Sansa, smile teasing. “You insisted back in Winterfell that you’d show me the woods, you told me your favourite thing to do here was watch the ships. It was a good guess.”

“Great guess, actually. This place isn’t small.”

“No, it's really not. I wish my ancestors had appreciated how hard it is to climb those towers in the winter.”

Sansa bites down to keep from laughing but does so anyway, a gentle thing.

Daenerys’ eyes dance. “Oh, my suffering is funny to you?”

“Maybe,” She outstretches her palm and Daenerys slides her own beside it. She cups Sansa’s cheek with her free hand, thumbing over the skin pink with the cold. It isn’t so bad today, just noticeable.

“I missed you,” She says, falling back on her heels. She toys with Sansa’s hand, pads of her fingers trailing the lines of her palm.

“You, too,” They both know that. Their every night together begins that way. That phrase. “I love this dress on you.”

Daenerys pinks, raising a brow. “Is it as good on me as you envisioned?”

“Better,” She rolls her eyes, “You know it looks good.”

“Oh, I do, I just wanted to hear you say it,” Daenerys smirks, reaching around her to take her own lemon cake. She hums her appreciation, surprised. “They’re really good.”

“I know,” Sansa tugs her close anyway, content to hold her. “How was your day?”

Daenerys pulls a face. Her left brow remains still, that jagged scar keeping it motionless. “I haven’t left court all day. I’m pretty sure I have no feeling below the waist anymore. My jaw may not ever recover.”

“That’s a shame,” Sansa snorts at Daenerys’ narrowed eyes. 

“Maybe I should let you take up my duties then, see how you fare.”

“No, I’m happy to leave those responsibilities with you.”

“I don’t envy yours either,” Daenerys tangles her fingers in her hair. 

Sansa hums, closing her eyes. “At least it's warm in there.”

“Maybe I’ll come back with you, I’m free for the rest of the day,” She can hear Daenerys’ smile, the suggestive lilt of her voice. 

“You know I can’t focus around you.”

“You say it like that’s a bad thing,” Daenerys chuckles, close enough she can feel her breath against her mouth. “Are you going to kiss me?”

“I was waiting on you,” Sansa grins, murmurs against her mouth.

She doesn’t have to look to know Daenerys rolls her eyes before tugging her down into a slow slide of their lips. She smiles into it, letting Daenerys pull her down and lick into her mouth.

They kiss a long time, or what feels like it, until Sansa can breathe no longer. She breaks away and, yet, Daenerys does not let go of her. She doesn’t fall back onto her heels either, content with pressing light kisses to her jaw. 

“Every day, I think about this, what’s waiting for me at the end of it,” She strokes her hands through Sansa’s hair, nails light on her scalp. “I love you.”

“I love you,” Sansa’s stomach dances with it, and she kisses her again just because she can. Because they can have this. Kisses her until Daenerys is panting into her open mouth, walking her back against the stone balcony. 

She feels light-headed when she pulls away again, cradling Daenerys’ jaw in her hands. Daenerys watches her with an expression so open and raw that she can’t look directly at it for a second.

“I want this for the rest of my life,” She swallows, lashes fluttering. “Sansa, I do. I want this with you forever.”

“Me too,” She’s surprised by how easy it comes to her, even with her heart in her throat. “I don’t know why you pursued me, or how - how we - I would want this whether we were in alleys in Pentos or here… anywhere. Anywhere, Daenerys.”

Daenerys absorbs her ramblings like she moved the ocean, hanging onto her words with glazed eyes.

“A ruler and their beloved are normally wedded long before the coronation,” She says so casually, like her nostrils aren’t flared. She swallows again. “Mine is a dozen moons away.”

“Daenerys.”

Daenerys leans into her hand, pressing a chaste kiss to it. “I know we are not.. not like those before us. And this isn’t out of obligation, or some kind of tradition, because-”

“ _Daenerys_ ,” She cuts in, “Just ask. Just ask me.”

“I’ve wanted to ask you for a while already,” Daenerys murmurs, rather shy. “This wasn’t how I wanted to do it. It really wasn’t.”

Sansa shakes her head. “It's just you and me and... And these, these lemon cakes. So it's perfect.”

Daenerys breaks into a laugh like she can’t quite believe it. Her hands leave Sansa’s hair to find her necklace, the one that has rested on her chest every day since they arrived in King’s Landing.

The jewel is ruby red. Matching the one at the head of her crown. A symbol of her own victories as much as her brother’s or her house’s as a whole, she’d said at the time it had been made. 

“How-”

“I haven’t had time to turn it into a ring, not without you knowing,” She takes Sansa’s hand from her face and rests the necklace in her open palm. “Do you want this?”

Sansa cannot stop looking down to the ruby, “How are you asking that? I do. I do want this. Of course I do, how could I not?”

Daenerys smiles, big and wide and unapologetically hopeful. She steadies herself back on her heels, “All I know is that I want you to be with me. I don’t care what happens or whether it was expected, I just. I just want this.”

Sansa laughs openly, kissing her briefly because she can’t resist. “So, ask me.”

Daenerys huffs in amusement, in adoration, taking her hand with the jewel inside. Her own shakes. “Marry me, Sansa. Marry me.”

"I don't want a big thing, something dramatic."

"Neither do I," Daenerys squints, "Just you. Just us, actually, that's all I want."

"Me too," She can't quite believe it. 

"So?"

She doesn't have to think about it for a moment. How could she possibly, ever, refuse?

**Author's Note:**

> tumblr: valyriaas


End file.
